


life goes on (with or without you)

by nayt0reprince



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Canon Divergence, Game Spoilers, M/M, Medium violence, Minor Character Death, Modern(ish) AU, Trans Alfyn, features original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 101,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23546890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: folks end up in unexpected relationships, as alfyn learns after getting entangled with a cactus of a man on an absolutely bonkers road trip of a lifetime.
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass & Zeph, Alfyn Greengrass/Therion
Comments: 108
Kudos: 177





	1. keys

**Author's Note:**

> you know what this mess of world needs more of? alfyn-centric fanfics. you know what I should be working on? not this, but here we are. welcome to my big project for 2020! here’s hoping I finish it, and I hope u enjoy! lemme know what u think!

Cellphone chock-full of smiling snapshots and feet ragged from dancing too much, Alfyn returned to his empty apartment with a defeated sigh. He yanked off his tie, abandoned his shoes close to the door, and scuffed his heels across the carpet to the couch where he all but collapsed. Sticky-sweet frosting and wine clung bitterly to his tongue. He licked his lips and rolled onto his side. Sweat coated nearly every inch of him, his skin begging to be freed from the cheap suit he bought last-minute to look at least _somewhat_ presentable at the big event. Not that it helped any; his hair still remained unruly as ever. Still, it was the thought that counts, right?

He couldn’t look like a walking disaster at his best friend’s wedding, after all.

Alfyn grunted and turned onto his back, fishing his phone out of his breast pocket. His thumb scrolled through the blurred and uneven pictures - one of Zeph and Mercedes cutting the first slice of cake, their big kiss, a selfie of Zeph and himself grinning ear-to-ear with their arms slung onto each other’s shoulders. Everyone expected it to happen, Alfyn included. Zeph and Mercedes danced around each other for years, never quite committing until a couple of years ago. 

(“I think I’m going to go for it,” Zeph announced one day as Alfyn’s pencil stilled. “I’m going to ask Mercedes on a date.”)

His thumb hovered over the screen until Zeph’s grin dimmed to black. He dropped the phone onto his chest before draping an arm over his eyes. He had so much work to do. Papers for bio, studying for the big pharmaceutical test next week. Some mandatory elective course homework, too. He hitched a leg up and swallowed hard. They looked beautiful together, Mercedes twirling in his arms, Zeph laughing - a perfect couple.

(“Shucks, why not?” Alfyn forced out as he pretended to take more notes. The pencil lead snapped under the pressure. “Ya only live once, right? And I be sure she’s more than interested, too.”

“You think so?”

“Buddy,” he replied, and for a brief moment, he believed his own smile to be genuine, “what lady _wouldn’t_ want to be with someone like you?”

“Aw, Alfyn.” Zeph smiled back. “Thanks for always supportin’ me.”

“Heh. What else’re friends for?”)

Damn it all. He promised that day to quit mulling over it like a sullen child yearning for a lost toy. He’d be by Zeph’s side, no matter what. Obviously. But seeing it actually happen? Watching them exchange rings? Promises of forever? It stung. It stung, and Alfyn had no medication to fix it. He _should_ be happy, like always, but it wasn’t working. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, held it for a few moments, then exhaled slowly. Nope. Still not any better.

Falling in love was easy. Falling _out_ of love before you were ready was impossible.

He sat up. Sitting in a dark apartment with responsibilities shrieking at him wasn’t going to help his sour mood any. He slapped his cheeks once, twice, and then rose to his feet. Several joints popped as he stretched, standing on his tiptoes for full effect. Moving on wasn’t going to happen remaining sedentary. Peeling off the damp suit and pulling on some more comfortable, worn-down relics of dreadful fashion’s past, he decided to ignore it all, just for tonight. He could deal with the heartache tomorrow, but for now, he needed to get a little loose, get a little nimble.

For tonight, he wasn’t Alfyn, the heartbroken - he was Just Alfyn. And Just Alfyn wanted a drink or six.

Keys stuffed in one pocket and almost-emptied wallet shoved into the other, he yanked on his sneakers and meandered outside, leaving his phone behind. He didn’t need the reminders to itch and burn through his pants and spread through his veins to kill his impending buzz. 

Night’s chill prickled goosebumps along his skin, draping over him like a blanket. Late spring weather was far from predictable; just a few hours ago, it was so warm that Alfyn thought he would suffocate in his suit. Now, as the neighbor’s lilacs and tall grasses swayed in the evening breeze, he wished he brought a light jacket or vest or _something._ He rubbed his upper arms as he meandered down the moonlit barren street. In such a small “hick town” (as so many outsiders commented), folks tended to turn in by nine or ten. Creep towards eleven, and all that remained were the handful of community college students on break hanging out in the same old bar residing within the one-street “downtown” Clearbrook had.

He pushed open the door. The jukebox was on full-blast, belting out old rock tunes Ma used to hum along to. Bodies meshed together away from the counter, grooving to the beat sloppily, spilling booze all over the floor. An exasperated barkeep glanced at Alfyn with weary eyes and gave him a reserved smile.

“Evenin’,” he said, setting down a glass. “What’ll it be?”

“Same old.” Alfyn slid onto his favorite stool in the center. “How be the kids?”

“Better, thanks to you and your friend there.” The barkeep poured ale into a tall glass and placed it in front of him. “Your little tricks settled down their flu for good. Gives the wife more sleep at night and spares my pockets from those damn hospital bills. Been real strong this year, ain’t it?”

 _Because it’s a Type-A strain this year._ Zeph told Alfyn to be extra careful around any patients he practiced with for now. Sure, spring was almost over, but the flu wasn’t yet; strong, resilient, and potentially lethal. Alfyn made a mental-note to check up on his neighbors sometime soon. They were getting up there, with telltale wrinkles and sagging noses and dark spots blotching their skin. “Yup, ya said it.”

The bartender nodded and glanced towards the door. “Zeph’s not with you?”

“Got hitched today.” He took a long sip of his ale. Bitter, but did the trick.

“Oh, that’s right, ain’t it? He and Mercedes, no? His sister’s been all in a tizzy ‘bout it, from what I heard. Still at that age where she wants her older brother’s attention all to herself.” The barkeep shook his head and smiled. “Youth. In time, she’ll come to want to fly the coop and explore the world without him. She was always more adventurous than he was.”

Fly the coop, eh? Alfyn swirled the ale around in his mug, watching the foam thin out in little pops. She did give Zeph many scares throughout his life - going out with friends without telling him, that poisonous snake bite from exploring the nearby forest, and escapades in taking the wrong bus all the time on purpose - so it wouldn’t be surprising. Zeph loved Clearbrook too much to leave, Alfyn reckoned. Mercedes was here. His family, too. Uprooting wasn’t in Zeph’s nature.

It wasn’t in Alfyn’s nature, either - or so he told himself ever since Ma passed. But the idea prickled along his skin, seeped into his veins, stirred in his blood, and clenched at his pounding heart. Leaving Clearbrook. It’d mean giving up on this semester, but he wasn’t doing that well anyway. He never was one for academics, but he wanted to try for his Ma’s sake. It’d also mean leaving everything he knew behind and scoping out a bigger world with what meager savings he had. So he needed to stay put.

Nice to dream though. Getting away from Clearbrook to breathe after today would be grand. Not to mention all the new people he’d meet, and all the things he could learn that no textbook could teach. Not that schooling and all the people he knew were boring or anything, but… The world was so big. One should go out and greet it at least once in their life, right?

He finished his first drink and asked for another. The music shifted from classic rock to a peppy pop tune, one popular on the radio, prompting hoots and hollers from the small cluster of drunks on the small dance floor. No one but the two at the counter noticed when the front door opened, when the bell jingled, and when a thin-framed man sporting a mop of white hair framing a lone green eye entered the building. Alfyn swallowed down another gulp as the man approached the counter and produced crumpled up bills.

“The draft,” he said, and the barkeep went to work. He took the spot one stool down away from Alfyn, arms resting on the countertop, forefinger tapping almost impatiently. A twitchy guy, it looked like. Alfyn never saw him before, but judging by the somewhat tattered poncho and scuffed-up jeans, he was probably one of them vagabonds passing through. He looked so young, too; Alfyn was more used to seeing the bearded and balding folks waiting by the train tracks to hitch rides. 

It took him a moment before realizing the man was staring back.

“What,” he spat out. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

“Shucks, I’m sorry.” Alfyn held up his hands. “I ain’t mean no offense, mister.”

A beat of silence. The man snorted and gave a quiet thanks to the barkeep, scarfing down his drink like it’s been eons since he’s last had one. 

“First time to Clearbrook?” The question escaped Alfyn before he even articulated it in his head properly. Of _course_ it was, and they both knew that, but if Alfyn mastered anything in his twenty-one years, it was the art of smalltalk.

The man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “What’s it to you.”

Answering a question with a question. An untrustworthy type. Well, nothing wrong with that. “Just wonderin’. Ya seem like the type to have been everywhere, y'know?” To places Alfyn couldn’t even imagine, no doubt. He smiled. “How’s Clearbrook compare?”

The man’s head turned ever-so-slightly, lips drawn in a tight line. He took another small sip. “It’s empty,” he answered. His tone implied more weight to those words than he let on, but Alfyn had no idea what. 

“You sure ain't wrong. We don’t even got no high school or nothin’. Takes us an hour in any direction to get anywhere with more civilization.” And an hour and a half to get to the closest relevant college, but other than that commute, Alfyn didn’t go anywhere else much. It saved some on gas at least. “But the people here sure are nice, and we ain’t got a shortage of trees or water.”

The man just grunted. Prickly, wasn’t he? Alfyn outstretched a hand and a grin.

“Name’s Alfyn. Nice to meet ya.”

“You just keep talking and talking, huh.” The man recoiled at the hand as if Alfyn just smeared bird gizzards onto it. He set down his mug and turned away, gaze settling on the window. Call it stubbornness or stupidity, but Alfyn kept his hand out like he was offering treats to a skittish, feral kitten. A few more moments passed. The man let out an exasperated sigh, took Alfyn’s hand, and gave him the most curt and abrupt handshake that lasted half of a second. Cold. His palm was _freezing._

“Therion,” he muttered, and Alfyn strained to catch it. Laughter spilled from the dance floor. A man with a necktie strapped to his forehead spun around in the center of a forming circle, showing off his classy dance moves with the grace of a one-legged pigeon. 

“Therion,” Alfyn repeated. He smiled. “What a cool name.”

“It’s not like I chose it or anything.”

 _“Someone_ can’t take a compliment,” he chided lightly, and for a split second, he could have sworn he saw the faintest inklings of a smile twitching at the corner of Therion’s lips. 

“Pretty low-bar for a compliment.” Therion chugged the rest of his drink and turned toward Alfyn. The dim lighting darkened the faint pink flush dyeing his cheeks. Someone wasn’t used to the “hick drink” potency, it seemed.

“Well, shucks, Therion.” Alfyn scratched the back of his head and flagged the barkeep for another refill. “Can’t blame a man for tryin'.”

“Bartender,” Therion called, and the barkeep glanced at him with piqued interest. Therion slid forward another bill, beckoned him closer, and spoke in hushed words that Alfyn couldn’t listen in on. The barkeep nodded once, almost hesitant, and then glanced at a piece of wrinkled paper Therion produced. Squinting at the sheet, the barkeep shook his head with an apologetic expression, and Therion sighed.

“Thanks,” he groused.

“That said,” the barkeep continued, “those beauties aren’t exactly known for bein’ subtle. You’re going to want to head up to _here,_ ” he scribbled something down on the paper, “for the red one you’re after. It’s a doozy, can’t miss it - if what they say about it be true, or if it even exists at all.”

Alfyn pretended to be interested in the dancing, but his curiosity nagged at him to keep eavesdropping (his Ma, bless her soul, gave that to Alfyn too. She was such a gossip, but everyone still loved her for her willingness to listen). 

Therion let out another sigh, albeit more frustrated than the last. “ _Great._ That’s completely the other way.”

The barkeep shrugged. “Don’t shoot the messenger. If you’re looking for transport, the east train leaves every other day around one in the morning or so. If that’s too early, grab the five-thirty. Tracks be beside the river, can’t miss it.”

Therion hummed in feigned interest. A loud crash stole the barkeep’s attention - one of the patrons dropped their mug - and he hurried over, shouting at them to stop being so rowdy. Alfyn glanced back at Therion, who stuffed his paper back into his pocket, finished off his drink, and slid off his stool to leave. 

Time slowed. The ale churned slid down Alfyn’s gullet. The shouts and whines from the nearby patrons faded into white noise. He put down his mug, eyes widening with a realization that this, this right here, with this man he just met all of five minutes ago, was his way out to finally see the world. Reckless? Sure, especially since this guy seemed what Zeph would call “bad news.” But life never happened standing still, so Alfyn got up and _moved._

“‘Scuse me!”

Therion kept walking. Alfyn wiped his mouth free of booze-foam with his sleeve before starting after him. He tried again, louder:

“Excuse me, Therion!”

He paused at the door, hand on the knob, chilly air spilling into the bar. Alfyn scratched the back of his head and gave a sheepish smile. 

“So, uh. Heard ya needed a way east, maybe?”

The door closed. Therion folded his arms across his chest, his eye narrowing. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, shoulders hackled. “You were listening.”

“Only on accident, kinda. Maybe. Yeah.” Alfyn shrugged. “I dunno why you need to go east, but - I have a truck.” A gas guzzler, one inherited from Ma. The passenger’s front door creaked loudly every time someone struggled to open it, the rearview mirror was slightly crooked, and he had a feeling the undercarriage was gradually becoming rusted out, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I can give ya a lift first thing tomorrow mornin’. I’m sure it would be faster than train-hitchin’ to your destination, y’know?”

He could see Therion weighing the pros and the cons in that sharp green eye of his. Seconds passed. 

Finally, a sigh.

“We meet out front here,” Therion said at last. “Five in the morning. Sharp. If you’re even a minute late, don’t come looking for me.” He turned around. “And don’t ask me anything about why I’m going there on the way over. Got it?”

Oh, like late-night gangster rerun flicks they played on TV. That’s what this felt like. A shady meeting in a bar, a deal, a secret mission, and Alfyn was now roped into it. Anyone with common sense would not even bother with something so potentially dangerous, if those ratted bandages on Therion’s arms gave any indication. But Alfyn wasn’t about to judge anyone for their lifestyle; heck, old Mr. Cooper near the edge of town and his cocaine addiction brought Alfyn over to that rundown trailer more times than he could count. 

(“Everyone has a story,” Ma said over dinner once, offering advice to a troubled six-year-old Alfyn’s fretting about his school’s bullies. “We can read it, an’ we can rate it at the end, but don’t write it off ‘til ya actually _get_ there. Be _kind,_ and if it ain’t work out and the story’s just crab apples? At least you gave it a shot. An’ _then_ ya can kick ‘em to the curb.”)

Five in the morning, eh? He would be sober to drive by then. Probably. “Got it. Sure was nice to meet you, Therion!”

Therion left seconds after Alfyn’s confirmation, the door slamming shut behind him. Well. Alfyn itched his cheek and returned to his spot at the counter, sipping at a nearly empty mug. The barkeep had returned and gazed at Alfyn.

“That kid’s bad news,” he commented. “I’d be late, if I were you.”

“Yeah, well. Can’t turn a blind eye to a guy in need. Y'know how I be by now.” Alfyn grinned and pulled out his wallet - or, rather, pocket lint. He blinked, then patted at all his pockets. Did he forget it? No way, he triple-checked on his way over. Where’d it go? The panic must have shown on his face as the barkeep shook his head.

“Greengrass, Greengrass. Just _what_ am I gonna do with you?” He took the empty mug and set it down in the small sink. “Told you the kid’s bad news.”

Oh, did he get pickpocketed? Therion stole from him? Alfyn gaped. He didn’t even _notice_ anything, felt no wandering fingers dipping into his back pocket or nothing. His lips quirked into an odd grin, both flabbergasted and amazed. Talk about skill.

“Shucks.” He laughed. “All the more reason to show up tomorrow on-time, I guess.”

***

Alfyn slept for maybe three hours.

There was too much to do and not much time to do it. He picked up belongings here or there around the apartment, washed the dishes, and stuffed some belongings into the bag Zeph left behind when he moved out. He had no idea how _far_ east they were going, so bringing the necessities - clothes, first-aid kit, the meager scraps of savings tucked in an old shoebox, Zeph’s field book on natural medicines and his own recipes - wasn’t a bad idea. If Therion even showed up. If Therion wasn’t just humoring Alfyn to get him to shut up so he could leave in peace.

Well, he’d know once he got there, wouldn’t he?

Stuff packed, he then made a list of everyone he needed to visit real quick before heading out for however long - the Smithingtons, the Chadwicks - to drop off some herbal remedies on their doorsteps. He also needed to visit Zeph and Mercedes (he swallowed) and leave them all the plants cluttering his windowsills. Zeph would still be around to help out the townsfolk too poor to go to the closest city’s hospital, soothing Alfyn’s fretful heart a little, but he’d need the supplies to do it. He performed one last sweep of the apartment, double-checked his to do list, and then flicked off the overhead light. 

_Bye, for now._ Bless his landlord’s soul; the guy hardly asked for much if nothing at all since she passed, ever since Ma saved his skin almost a decade back.

The last of his duties was almost too easy to complete; most of Clearbrook’s residents conglomerated close to the tiny downtown stretch or hugged along the river close to the train tracks. His brisk walk in the hushed night posed no threats or danger, but the air, still a tad frigid from the last of winter’s ever loosening grip, stirred in anticipation with what was to come.

He set the plants and his long-winded letter tucked beneath one of the pots on Zeph’s patio. His arms ached from carrying them so long; balancing them proved to be a feat of engineering never seen by the likes of mankind before. He stretched, gaze shifting to the unlit windows, and smiled a little. Zeph would understand. Maybe. Then again, he might clock Alfyn upside the head after learning his need to leave town was spurred on by someone who hijacked his wallet.

 _But you’re always like that, ain’t you, Alf?_ He could hear him say. _Always leaping ‘fore you look. It’s what makes you so… you. And if this is somethin’ you want to do, then doggone it, go and do it, even if nobody else would. And when all’s good and done, come back home to us, yeah? We’ll always be waiting for you._

Speaking of. Alfyn checked the time on his cellphone. With a half hour to spare, he finished his last rounds for Clearbrook. Now, it really felt like this was _happening;_ in a half hour, he and a total stranger outside of a shared name would be traveling to who knows where for who knows what for who knows how long. Had he lost his mind? Probably. But in its stead, he gained an ever-growing excitement, making him giddy to the very tips of his toes. 

“See ya, Nina. Mercedes.” He gave a small wave to the familiar and warm house, already missing it. “Zeph.”

He turned on his heel and didn’t look back.

***

He rolled up in Ma’s truck three minutes before the assigned rendezvous. The poor truck’s frame shuddered in relief when he cut off the engine. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, lacing his fingers behind his head while he closed his eyes. He should feel exhausted; he turned twenty-one all of three months ago, and was still a growing boy as Mrs. Dottlebee loved to remind him. But both his mind and body felt sharp with the oncoming dawn. He never was an early bird, but today seemed to be a day for new things. 

A knock against the passenger’s side window roused him from his thoughts. He blinked, then grinned, reaching across the way to unlock and open the door. In climbed Therion, alert and grumpy as when they first met; although he did appear a little more tired than Alfyn. He sat down and slammed the door shut with a sigh.

“You actually came,” they both said simultaneously.

“Jinx,” Alfyn teased, “ya owe me a Coke. Or my wallet, since it’s got my license an’ I kinda need that to drive legally.”

His little rub fell flat as Therion toyed with the seatbelt, as though hesitating before committing to joining Alfyn and his far-cry rendition of “dad jokes” for a trip.

“Whatever.” He tossed a worn-down wallet onto the center console. “Not like there was anything in it, anyways. How were you even going to pay for your booze.”

“Nothin’ was in it? Thought for sure I had at least _somethin’._ Well, lucky for me you gone off with it - the barkeep let me off the hook. Then again, I’m sure he would’ve either way.” Alfyn put the wallet back in his pocket, but not before stealing a glimpse of the pictures still safely tucked away in them. Ma. Zeph and Nina. All safe. 

“You.” Therion stared at him, bewildered. A question of _what’s_ with _you?_ floated on his face, to which Alfyn just shrugged off. “I stole your wallet.”

“Pretty sneaky too. I ain’t felt a thing when ya did, y’know? Crazy.”

“And you’re _still_ giving me a ride.”

“Yup.”

“Were you dropped on your head as a kid?”

Alfyn laughed and turned the keys in the ignition. The truck wheezed before thrumming to life, an early morning talk show playing faintly on its tinny speakers. 

_“Sun’s bound to come up in about ten or so minutes, with highs reaching…”_

“So,” he said, fingers rapping against the steering wheel, “where to, buddy?”

The complete blank expression on Therion’s face either screamed _you’re insane_ or _there’s no way I can be this lucky._ He glanced behind them, as if expecting a swarm of police cars to pull up behind them, or maybe waiting for the rug to be pulled out from underneath him. Alfyn waited patiently. When neither of those things happened, Therion settled back down in his seat - although he didn’t put on his seatbelt. He seemed to be that type.

“Ever heard of Noblecourt?”

“Nope. That far?”

“It’s almost across the country.”

“You’re kiddin’! Shucks, and you were plannin’ to just hitch a train? I’m sure we can get there in three days or four or so, maybe. I got a map in the glove compartment. Can you read directions to me?”

“Don’t you have a GPS.”

“Never used one, never owned one.”

“You have a cellphone.”

“S’got no data. Stuff’s expensive as-is, you know? And maps are more reliable. Ain’t gonna lose their batteries at inconvenient times. Here,” Alfyn popped open the compartment and rummaged through the sea of crinkled papers before yanking out the handy-dandy atlas book. “Ever used one of these?”

“Do I look that stupid?” Therion yanked the book out of his hands before peeling it open. He kicked his feet up onto the dashboard and put the seat down a little in a more reclined position. He frowned. “This is covered in stains. It’s barely legible.”

“My Ma bought that thing ages ago or so, I reckon. She told me once that she used to be a little crazy before she met Pa, goin’ here there and everywhere.” He grinned. “Ain’t had the heart to throw it out, but I guess maybe we’ll need a new one, huh?”

Therion stuffed the useless map back into the glove compartment. With a deep, tired sigh, he said, “Let’s find the closest gas station first and get one then, Mr. Useless-with-Technology.”

“Alrighty then,” Alfyn said, grinning despite the jab, “one trip to the station, at your service.” 

***

_Dear Zeph,_

_It’s me, Alf. I bet you’re all kinds of confused about why there’s just a bunch of plants and this letter sitting here on your doorstep, huh? I’m sorry if my handwriting’s bad, I’ve got to write fast. A whirlwind of stuff just happened, and I’m still trying to catch up with it, you know? So, first thing’s first: this isn’t as long as it looks. All the scrap paper stapled to this is just my rounds and people I check up on from time to time. I hate to ask this of you, since you just got married and all, but can you take care of them while I’m gone? You’re so good with everybody, I’m sure all my clients’ll love you to pieces. The plants are parts of medical components you’ll need for the attached medication list._

_Oh, right, duh - I’m leaving Clearbrook. Temporarily! I dunno for how long, but it’s for something important. I’m sorry I couldn’t say “bye” in person. I think if I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to commit to my trip. You know how it is, don’t you? Maybe not. Me neither, to be honest. I’m kind of making it up as I go along. Anyways, I’m gonna get out there and see the world a bit, take a bit of a break from the country. Might as well do it while I’m still young, yeah?_

_I’ll still miss you and Nina like no man’s business, though. Please text me every once in a while, and I’ll text you when I have service. Dunno when that’ll be, depending how far I go, but it’s the thought that counts._

_I wish you and your family the best of health. I’ll keep you in my thoughts, yeah? I hope you’ll keep me in yours._

_And congratulations on your marriage! I wish you two the best. Actually, I know you two will have a great future together. I can’t imagine a better pair. Well, other than me and my mead, but nothing can top that. Haha!_

_Alright, enough of me rambling. I’ve gotta get going sooner or later. If you need anything, you have my number._

_Lots of love,_

_-Alf. G._


	2. ignition

The gas station attendant - an adrogynous figure who looked anywhere between thirteen to fifty - yawned upon a customer’s arrival at stupid-early in the morning. A robotic _ding-dong_ followed by the doors sliding open made the attendant - well, more attentive, hands clasped behind their back while they forced themselves to project an equally-robotic yet sunny disposition.

“Welcome,” they said, tilting their body to the left - oh, _two_ customers - in greeting. The clock had yet to strike six, but these two wandered in awake and oddly alert, as if they just pulled an all-nighter to cram for exams. Was it already exam season? Who knew anymore; weeks and months blended together for the attendant, who measured time in forty hours on the clock (and up to sixty when the part-timers called out sick). They did know the flowers in bloom smelled lovely after a chilling rain. 

“Howdy.” The taller one beamed a smile so genuine and bright the attendant almost winced. The smaller one, however, seemed much more down-to-earth with a scowl and a glare that rivaled the feral cats that roamed the sweeping grasslands. “We were wonderin’ if you folks had any maps that covered the whole country?”

Wasn’t this the Greenery kid? Greenwell? Green-something. He had lived in Clearbrook since he was born two decades or so back. For some reason, they thought he died from the flu or something similar during the terrible season that claimed at least fifty lives within the Riverlands alone. Or maybe that was the Greenthumb’s mother. They hadn’t seen her this fishing season yet, boasting about her catches and complaining about the ever-increasing prices for fish bait. The attendant smiled and gestured toward the far back corner. “With our stationary items. Though there’s not much in terms of selection, I’m afraid.”

“Thanks.” Greengiant winked and meandered off toward the maps, and the attendant shifted their attention to the scrawny one. A fidgety creature, washed up from the sea of unfairness yet still surviving the unfair hand dealt to him. More often than not, those deemed as the dredges of society either ended up becoming one of two things: drunk or dead. This one ambled sober, fingers twitching to shoplift, but that hardened eye of his told the attendant he did, in fact, die - perhaps many years ago when he first ended up on the street.

The attendant saw them every once in a while, the dead men walking. A handful of truckers given a second chance earning a decent salary that came in to buy a pack of smokes often possessed the eyes of dead men. A regular business man who stopped in during trips from the ruddy north to the sandy south bore them, too. But none of the attendant’s numerous customers thus far rivaled this used mop’s.

“Hey, Therion!” Greenleaf waved to the rat, urging him to come over. His heist abandoned with a reluctant huff, the shorter man scuffed his heels to join him. They spoke in lowered tones - Greenpeace scratching his cheek, rat’s brow furrowing while flipping through an inexpensive atlas. 

What an interesting duo. The attendant hummed, rapping their fingers along the countertop as their gaze shifted to the storefront window. The rain was still far off, much to their disappointment. Before long, that perfect smell of a post-spring rain would turn into summer, rendering it lost for another year.

Oh well. The years could pile up. The attendant would still stand there, waiting for its return. 

A _whump_ of goods sprawled out on their countertop.

“Uh, Therion?” Greengills glanced at him anxiously. “S’alotta stuff, ain’t it?”

“Ring it all up,” Therion said without hesitation. Up close, he looked even more like trouble. Fascinating. The attendant smiled and scanned each item with meticulous care - a stone’s worth of apples, a trove of snacks - before setting each one gently into the bag. The total reached around two thousand leaves. Two one-thousand bills and a handful of change scattered on the glass.

What a talented rat, the attendant noted. To collect so much money from undoubtedly the purses of others was quite a skill. Not to mention - they allowed their disinterested stare to shift to that worn purple poncho of his - the stuff he swiped right from under the attendant’s nose. 

Oh well. They elected to ignore it. Sleeping security cameras never picked up sins, anyways. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” they asked out of courtesy more than anything. Greenman’s grin returned.

“Sure did. We be goin’ on a trip ‘cross the country.”

The attendant made an appropriate whistle. “Sounds like quite the adventure. First time leaving Clearbrook?”

“Well, I mean,” Greenjolly let out a nervous chuckle, “I’ve left Clearbrook before, but just on out to Saintsbridge. It’s gonna be my first time really stretchin’ my wings. Therion’s been all over, though.”

Said-Therion only snorted.

“Well, be careful out there.” The attendant set down the bag onto the counter. “Once you see the world for what it really is, it can get both intoxicating and dangerous for some folk. There’s some things that are incredible, and some things that are… not so much. But I guess therein lies the fun of doing something new. Seeing it for yourself.”

“Have _you_ traveled a lot?”

The attendant only smiled. “Would you like your receipt?”

Therion already left the station, bag tucked under his arm. Greendale hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah, I think we’re all set. Sorry, he’s kinda anxious to get goin’, you know? Has places to be.”

“No worries, friend. Safe travels.”

The duo of the day hopped into a banged-up truck, and the attendant watched as it rumbled away. It sounded like a low, slow-building thunder; one that grabs your attention first before unleashing a torrential fury that could shatter eardrums. The attendant readjusted their baseball cap, ran their fingers through their wavy hair, and glanced at the clock.

Still not six.

It was going to be a long day.

***

“What a creep,” Therion groused under his breath. 

Alfyn turned onto the emptied main drag riddled with potholes. The governor promised more infrastructure funding later that year to patch up what could be considered as roads (if you squinted). For now, the truck swerved left and right to avoid them. Alongside the street ran the river, its ripples catching the morning sun that at last peeked from behind the horizon.

“I was kinda surprised how much money ya got on-hand,” Alfyn commented. “Why not just buy a bus ticket to Nobleward?”

“Noblecourt,” Therion corrected, rummaging through the plastic back and plucking an apple out. He rotated it, eye narrowing in inspection. “Buses are dangerous.”

“And hitchin’ rides on trains ain’t? Or with strangers?”

“A different kind of danger.” A loud munch followed, ending the conversation there without further elaboration. Huh. Alfyn pursed his lips and turned up the radio a little. A chipper jingle for an ad played: _Come visit our campus today! Atlasdam awaits you!_

They rolled up to a stop sign, with three different directions to choose from. 

“Which way, buddy?”

Therion took another gargantuan bite into the apple before his sticky fingers yanked the atlas out of the bag. Between chews, he jerked his thumb left and said, “Follow the signs that read ‘RL South.’”

The truck lurched forward, taking the turn almost too wide. Alfyn had his license, sure, but he hardly used it at all. Clearbrook was so tight-knit and close together that he could practically walk anywhere he wanted. Except to go to the college, of course. He winced. Right, college; the one institution he didn’t exactly inform about his sudden plans. Well, he was sure he’d figure it out later. 

For now, he needed to focus on driving. He glanced at his companion, who rolled down the window and tossed the apple core out of it.

“Like apples?” he asked.

The question weighed heavily between them as though Alfyn just asked if the death penalty was a justifiable punishment in the court of law. Therion kept the window rolled down, allowing the cool air to pour in and drown out the morning talk show hosts blathering on the radio.

“I don’t hate them,” he said at last, each word carefully uttered.

“They keep us docs away at least, hey? Like the saying. Though you might not wanna scare off your ride.”

He made a faint sound of acknowledgment. “You’re a doctor.”

“Kinda. More like a non-traditional pharmacist. But my medical knowledge be pretty up there too. Don’t got my degree, though.”

“So you’re a quack,” Therion surmised. Alfyn blinked, then laughed.

“More or less, I guess. But the recipes work, so that’s gotta count for somethin’. Ain’t none of them use apples sadly. Some do use special grapes.”

“Grapes,” Therion repeated, incredulous.

“ _Special_ grapes. None of your standard grocery store fare. Ya gotta know where to look. More medically potent than apples, I’ll tell ya.”

The river winded away from the road and toward the woods when the tarmac shifted to macadam. Signs spotted rust from wear and tear - the next marker for “RL South” was almost illegible, its paint peppered with chips. Alfyn fanned himself as the truck rumbled on the narrower strip, slowing down whenever little critters darted in front of the grill. Tree lines tapered, soon growing stripped of familiar hardwoods to squiggly, thin imitations, barren of spring. 

They pulled over to a clearing off the beaten path about three hours into the mostly silent drive. Alfyn hopped out to stretch, joints popping as his hands splayed out to the sky, while Therion just sat on the hood.

“Funny that, just a little down south, the temps skyrocket into un-fuckin’-bearable, huh?” Alfyn shrugged off his trademark favorite light jacket and tossed it through the truck’s opened window. “Feels like summer.”

Therion, predictably, didn’t respond. Although his eyebrow did raise in surprise at something - but for what, Alfyn could only hazard a guess.

The clearing itself had many tire tracks. A popular spot for travelers, it looked like; someone even made a makeshift park bench under the lone tall tree promising shade. He lugged over a cooler and opened it. Smart thinking to pack some food. He mentally high-fived the somewhat delirious 3 AM Alfyn frantically patching together an impromptu trip kit. An egg salad sandwich (sloppy in construction, but delicious all the same) sat on top, which he greedily snatched up.

“Don’t you wanna sit over here?” Alfyn called. Therion glanced at him, shrugged, then slid off the hood. Even his footsteps were light. Therion sat down, and Alfyn continued, “Aren’t ya hot?”

Another shrug. He toyed with the hem of his poncho. “Nothing I’m not used to.”

“You from the Sunlands then?”

A non-committal hum. Alfyn reasoned that perhaps not even Therion knew. He split the sandwich in half and offered one to him. After a few moments, Therion accepted, although his eye narrowed in mild disgust.

“I think I got some tuna fish in there too, if you’d rather. Not really breakfast food, but neither be egg salad, I s’pose.”

“It’s fine.” 

“Alrighty then.”

Of all the folks Alfyn ever encountered, none were more displeased at the mere idea of conversation than Therion. Sure, Mr. Thompson often grunted and scowled like the best of them, but once you buttered him up about boats, his withered eyes lit up and his mouth babbled like the brooks. Alfyn leaned back against the tabletop, cocking his head upward. Blue skies. Perfect day for a drive. Still, he could feel himself growing tired. They might need to stop a bit once they found haven in the Sunlands, after all. Hopefully Therion’s duties weren’t extremely urgent.

Then again, if they _were,_ then he would have said something when Alfyn pulled over in the first place. Needed to be timely, but not _super_ timely. Fine by him.

His mind wandered to Ma. She would’ve loathed the current landscape - not a drop of water to be fished. She also would’ve probably told him to at _least_ finish the semester before going out into the world. 

_You doin’ okay up there, Ma? Keep an eye out for me, if you’re not super busy chattin’ up the heavenly locals ‘bout your records._

He licked his thumb and forefinger smeared in egg and mayonnaise. Therion already scarfed down his portion - a quick eater! Maybe he hated the taste so much he just wanted to get it over and done with. Alfyn made a mental note to make less egg salad sandwiches.

“Ready to roll?” Alfyn asked, and Therion rose from his seat before meandering back to the truck.

Well. Eventually he’ll find something Therion might be interested in talking about.

***

Morning drifted to high noon, and high noon in the blistering desert never boded well. The poor truck’s AC sputtered in a valiant effort to keep them cool as its all-season tires struggled to gain traction on the sand-coated streets. A few times, the sudden winds almost knocked them into the dunes, buffeting the windshield with sparkling grains. Alfyn heard of the horror stories of anyone unprepared taking a day-trip to a popular oasis resort _somewhere_ within the Sunlands. Usually it ended with plucked apart bones being salvaged by the local watch. Even with all the progress in the world, some forces of nature couldn’t be contained. It was both a marvel and a nightmare.

By afternoon, Alfyn struggled with both a heavy exhaustion and quelling his nerves every time the truck almost lost control. Therion’s expression betrayed nothing with every awkward lurch, though his knuckles grew whiter around the grab handle. The temperatures began to plummet, and the AC was switched off. Old sweat clung to Alfyn’s back. He squinted at an outline in the distance - a rock formation - and the sign reading “SL South” faded to near obscurity. 

“Stop,” Therion said in the tense silence, and Alfyn pulled the truck over behind a stray large stone for protection. He fiddled with the atlas, forefinger tracing lines, then pointed toward the cluster. “There’s an inn over in that town. Should take a breather before trying to keep pushing through the Sunlands.”

Alfyn fanned himself with the collar of his worn t-shirt. “You sure sound like an expert travel guide, y'know?”

“I’m just.” Therion stared. “I’m literally just reading off the ‘recommendations’ sidebar here. And it doesn’t take a quack’s expertise to know you’re not gonna make it another four hours or so before sundown.”

“Shucks, do I look that bad?” He let out a sheepish laugh and shifted the truck back in gear. “Sorry, bud. I ain’t mean to hold you back none. But once I catch enough Zs, I promise ya, I can go all damn day.”

Therion snorted and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _“that’s what she said.”_ Alfyn chose not to comment but his ears tinted pink anyhow.

The town of Sunshade - a bit bigger than Clearbrook, for sure, but paled in comparison to Saintsbridge - founded itself around a large rock formation that weathered against the brittle sands. Alfyn switched off the windshield wipers and flicked on the headlights; the town was dark, the rocks providing perhaps too much ample shade. Houses more often than not sported boarded windows, and the gas station still used plastic sheets to display their gas prices. Even the one back home switched to the glaring red electronic ones. He filled up the truck, gaze wandering to a group of women tittering on the sidewalk, passing cigarettes amongst each other. One met his eyes, whispered something to the others, and the group shared a collective giggle.

Shoot, was he gawking? He was totally gawking. Being from the sticks, he’d never seen such fashion choices before. Nearly everyone and their grandmother wore some variation of plaid or hand-me-downs, none of which revealing. He gave a quick, hesitant wave before immediately redirecting his attention to the pumps. 

Talk about embarrassing.

Inside the gas station didn’t fare much better to its rundown exterior. A rotund, balding cashier hardly acknowledged him when Alfyn came in to pay. An old TV displayed baseball results, its screen wavy and dotted with stray static lines. The man lit a cigar, inhaled, then exhaled slowly when Alfyn cleared his throat. The exchange was curt, but Alfyn made an effort to be extra pleasant. By the time the man finished handwriting the receipt, he learned Mr. Binks _loved_ the Stillsnow Wolves, but had to pretend to be a fan of the Wellspring Wanderweeds just so the guys at the tavern wouldn’t give him shit. 

“Ask for Alyssa there, and she’ll brew you the best beer this side of the oasis, you hear?” Mr. Binks tore the note paper and handed the receipt to Alfyn. “Just don’t be going there during a game if you’re looking for a relaxing time. We get a bit rowdy in there.”

“Sounds like fun!” Alfyn grinned and waved. “Maybe I’ll see ya there?”

“Pff, don’t you know it. If you stick around these parts, you’ll see me on Friday night.”

When he returned, Therion spared him a glance before letting out a punctual yawn. He folded his arms across his chest. “Took you long enough. Did the guy think the money was fake or what.”

“Nah, just made a new friend is all.”

“Figures.” He let his head press against the window. “You’re a weirdo. Seems like you’d make friends with every service employee on the damn planet.”

“You’re not wrong. Where to?”

The inn, as suggested by the little blurb tucked away in the atlas, appeared out of place. While it was surrounded by borderline dilapidated housing, it marked the start of an entirely new section of town filled with glitz and glamor. The inn had cute cacti lining the flower boxes, and its sign, carved in cursive, felt warm and inviting. The windows were exposed and clean, nary a crack to be seen. 

Therion frowned. “Looks pricey.”

“Well, judgin’ by the parking lot, it looks pretty _empty,_ too. Maybe they’re not in season yet, so the prices’ll be lower?” He held open the door. “After you.”

Therion blinked, then stepped inside. The momentary puzzlement on his face was almost priceless. Maybe he wasn’t used to decent manners. Or decency in general. Alfyn knew better than to make judgments based on appearances, but the sheer shagginess Therion exuded reeked of “rough upbringing.”

The front desk clerk - Ms. Otieno, who’s smile rivaled that of the desert sun - informed them that, yes, a room would be well within their price range, so long as they didn’t mind only having one bed. Alfyn glanced at Therion, who just shrugged, before confirming the payment. 

“If you’re going far, you should know most hotels don’t take leaves anymore,” she said, counting the bills. “We’re a bit of an exception, but… You’ve got credit cards on you, right?”

Before Alfyn could say no, Therion abruptly interjected, “Yes.” Weird. He did not pinpoint Therion into a credit card-holding guy. Guess it was better to not question it.

“Oh, phew.” Ms. Otieno relaxed a little, as if genuinely concerned for their journey. “Just making sure. How many keys?”

“Two’s fine.”

The room was graciously spacious, and the bed large enough for two bodies of their size with enough breathing room. It smelled flowery, in an artificial way. Alfyn wrinkled his nose to adjust while setting down the cooler and his lone bag, body aching for rest. Not getting enough sleep was a complete mistake. 

“You going to bed?”

Alfyn yawned and glanced at Therion, who took stock of the amenities in the fridge while shoving the perishable items in the little space available. “If you ain’t mind. I’m beat.”

“You can do whatever, I don’t really care.” He closed the fridge and adjusted his poncho. “I’m gonna go out, though. There’s some... things I need to take care of.”

“Huh? Need any help?”

“No. I do better alone.” Therion spun the keyring around his forefinger before it disappeared under his poncho. He slinked out the door and closed it as silently as his footsteps. Alfyn stared after him, eyebrow raised, before making the best decision of his life to flop onto the mattress.

Well.

He reached over to the electronic clock and set an alarm for a late dinner. He had enough leaves for a cheap meal somewhere. Any town had a local watering hole with decently priced wings to boot. And, since this was his first time here, he itched to get out there and meet new friends. Later, though. First, sleep.

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He thought about Zeph and Mercedes. What did Zeph think about finding his letter amidst the plants? He hoped he didn’t saddle his best friend with too much responsibility. Or cause too much worry. Nina already troubled the poor guy enough with her “curiosity killed the catfish” antics. His brow furrowed. Then again, Clearbrook always readied itself to lend a hand; they embraced a community outlook rather than an independent one.

Therion appeared to believe in the latter, however. The guy only agreed to go with Alfyn out of convenience. Hitching rides on _trains._ Alfyn couldn’t imagine it. The more he pondered it, the more _fantastical_ Therion seemed; a mysterious mission to complete with eclectic travel methods and who only spoke when necessary. Maybe he worked for the government as a spy. But if that was the case, the government really needed to give him a pay raise for some new digs. Unless, of course, that was part of the act? 

(Therion stands upon a church’s highest steeple. A black cape billows in the wind, his face obscured not only by his hair, but by a mask. A strange, foreign smile unfurls on his lips, oozing with confidence. Then, he leaps from rooftop to rooftop, shouts of police fill the air, louder, louder, and louder still, almost blaring to match the ominous _gong gong gong_ of sermon bells--)

The alarm bleated with its shrill wails. Alfyn blinked once, twice, until finally freeing his arm from beneath the pillow to slap the clock off. Dinnertime already? He yawned and pushed himself up, groping the walls in the dark to locate the light switch. The lights revealed Therion’s absence. Still out.

He patted his pockets (wallet, check, cellphone - no bars, also nearing death - check, keys, check) and yawned. His stomach gurgled for attention. Time to see if this “Alyssa” was as good as Mr. Binks claimed she was. With a quick wave to the new front desk clerk, he stepped out of the hotel and beheld the spectacle of Sunshade in the twilight. The last sun rays filtered through what little cracks the rocks permitted. A nightly marketplace laid claim to the side streets, vendors shouting over one another. Crowds walked in bunches. Given the size of town, he never anticipated _this_ many people to be out.

He wandered between groups of people, eying different shops and their clientele. Some spoke in foreign tongues he didn’t have a hope to understand. Others spoke loud and clear, engaging in shouting matches over prices. What a completely different atmosphere than when they first arrived! He couldn’t tell if it was pleasant or somewhat unsettling. 

At least the tavern was welcoming enough. Dimmed lights and almost-full tables scattered throughout the place. No one took much stock in Alfyn when he pushed open the heavy door; a couple of eyes immediately assessed he wasn’t from here, but lost interest as quickly as it came. He sidled up to the counter and claimed a seat closer toward what looked to be a stage. 

“What you want?” a burly woman asked, voice husky. She looked terribly annoyed and bored. Given the rowdiness of the group at the other end, he could imagine why.

“What’s your recommendation?”

“For you?” She sized him up, hummed, then poured a light-colored draft. “The Sunland Scorpion. Low content, but has enough spice to keep you warm for the rest of the night. You’re not dressed right, so you’re definitely not from around these parts. Goes great with the wings, if you’re interested.”

“Sure. Not to be a bother, but what’s the stage for?”

She pursed her lips. “A foreigner who’s not here for our infamous shows, eh? You’re a weird one. They’re for the dances. You’ll see soon enough. I’ll be back with you when the order’s ready, mmkay?”

Dances? He knew a few himself - nothing fancy, just standard fare. To have a whole stage for dancing seemed a little excessive. The poles on opposite ends looked like they would get in the way, too. He took a sip of the drink - holy _shit,_ that was spicier than molten fucking lava, what did she _put_ in it?! - and wheezed. Tears pricked at his eyes. He prided himself on being able to drink anything put in front of him, but this was - he coughed - this was something else entirely. He pounded on his chest, coughing a few more times, before the bartender reappeared with a wings’ basket in her hands.

“Strong enough for you?”

“ _Wow,_ ” he managed, laughing despite the pain.

She nodded in approval. “The wings’ll help. Flag me down if you want more. Make sure to pick up your tab by the front door when you’re ready to head out. Enjoy the show - you’re in for a treat, because today’s opening act is Primrose.”

The way she said _Primrose_ dripped in both admiration and borderline pity. He ventured another sip of his drink - the second time went down easier, though not any less fiery - before taking a bite of the wings. Not bad. His gaze swept over the rest of the tavern; many well-to-do patrons huddled close in velvety chairs encompassing the stage. The lesser off hung around in the main dining area. A town very much seated in income inequality, he supposed, and the money didn’t appear to come from anywhere clean.

 _Hey now, no judgin’ on looks, remember?_ He stretched. _Ma’d be real disappointed in you if she knew you were thinkin’ like that. Everyone’s a friend you ain’t made yet._

Speaking of friends. He caught a glimpse of white hair - _Therion?_ \- and sat up straighter to get a better look. Weaving between tables, the nimble Therion walked with purpose. He paused upon noticing Alfyn staring at him, sighed, and then strode over to him, aggravated about something.

“You’re awake.”

“Have ya tried the drinks here yet?” Alfyn offered the glass for him to take a sip. “Incredible spicy shit, I’m tellin’ ya. Ain’t had nothin’ like it.”

“Not interested.”

“Didja finish up with whatever you were doin’? Help me eat some of these wings, there’s a lot of ‘em.”

After momentary hesitation, Therion sat on the unoccupied stool beside him and helped himself to one of the wings. He still chewed as if there were a time limit and if he didn’t complete it in time, the whole bar would explode.

“It’s not bad.”

“Right? I think they breaded ’em with garlic.” He gestured toward the stage. “Apparently, they’re gonna have a dance pretty soon here, and the main act’s gonna be incredible. Wanna stick around and watch it with me?”

Therion opened his mouth with an obvious decline, but the cue of string instruments interrupted him. They both looked toward the stage in anticipation while the lights went almost completely out, a bright beam showcasing the magnificent woodwork in the stage’s construction. The clientele hushed. Therion swiped another wing, but didn’t move from his seat. 

And beneath the lights emerged the rose, draped in stunning reds and golden bangles. Alfyn’s jaw dropped as she sauntered center stage, her silky eyes flickering about the crowd. For a moment, she paused on the stunned Alfyn, shifted to his companion, before dropping her gaze entirely somewhere else. _Wow._ First the drink, now the dancer - both literally amazed him in two different ways. 

“Stare any harder and your face will stick like that,” Therion commented.

“Buh?”

Her body didn’t simply move with the music; she embodied the music itself. Every twist of her wrist or step of her heel moved with purpose, intermingling both pleasure and pain in each long winded note of the violin. Although he knew nothing about her, her dance interpreted a life story brimming with trials and tribulations. His stare never left her form, drink and food all but forgotten. By the time she curtsied (it was over already?) Alfyn had to remember how to _breathe._

“Wow,” he gasped, seemingly for the millionth time that evening. 

The rapturous applause accompanied by whistles, whoops, and hollers filled the tavern, leaving no drops of silence in its wake. Primrose hid a smile behind her hand - “You all flatter me so!” - before blowing a kiss. She all but waltzed offstage, but - Alfyn followed her odd stare. She carried herself with _purpose,_ almost seething with rage once buried ages deep. 

He only saw such an expression once: when Zeph heard the news of Nina’s poisoning.

Someone bumped into his back. He sputtered and looked over his shoulder, only to see a person in black shuffle through the crowds and out the front door. Must be in a hurry for something. He took another sip of his drink - _right, spicy, hot hot hot!_ \- and managed to grin at Therion.

“What’d you think?”

Unsurprisingly, Therion shrugged. “Good, I guess.”

“Comin’ from you, that be pretty high praise ain’t it?”

The dancer - Primrose, he recalled - appeared from one of the side-doors leading to the backstage area and laughed and tittered through the crowd to get to the front door. Alfyn’s gaze followed her - _quit bein’ a creep -_ and tried to stop, only to see a look of frustration cross her face.

Then, after a brief confrontation with some pudgy man and a smaller girl, she managed to leave the building. 

Something sure seemed up. Alfyn would bet his ass on it.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Therion took the last wing and made a point of crunching it with more force than necessary between his teeth. Alfyn blinked, and returned his attention to him.

“You’re thinking about seeing ‘what’s up with her,’” Therion continued as if reading straight out of a book, “aren’t you.”

“And if I am?”

He let out a low grunt and pushed the wings basket away. “If you are,” he said, eye narrowing, “and you get yourself killed, I’ll have to find a new way to Noblecourt. I’m not telling you what you can and can’t do, because I really don’t give a shit. But I’m planning on blowing this popsicle stand by tomorrow morning - with or without you. Got it?”

Alfyn hesitated. The empty wings basket was taken away by the bartender alongside the somehow-finished drink. “Checkin’ on her shouldn’t take me the whole night, y’know.”

“Depending on what it is. This town’s got some shitty dealings going on, from what I eavesdropped on.” He slipped off the stool and rolled his shoulder with a loud “pop.” He averted his stare to the floor. “Don’t,” he muttered, “bite off more than you can chew, Mr. Bright-Eyes. See you at the hotel. Or not.”

That sounded suspiciously like advice. Huh. Alfyn watched Therion disappear out into the dark without another word. After a moment’s deliberation, Alfyn steeled his resolve and got up himself. It might not be any of his business, sure, but he can’t just ignore someone who might need help. If it got real bad, he’d figure something out. Maybe. And maybe he was just overthinking it. Maybe she got in an argument before her shift even started. And if that was the case, he’d be back at the hotel in no time to catch more Zs.

After paying his bill (of which was a little higher than expected, but - as it turned out - Alfyn had more money in his wallet than he thought), he stepped back out into the shaded town. The air smelled crisp. The bartender was right; it grew chillier, peppering his exposed skin with goosebumps. Thanks to the drink, though, he never felt warmer in his life. He glanced around - no signs of Therion, and no signs of the dancer Primrose, either. He was on his own to figure this out, if only to make himself feel better.

He turned left, the opposite direction of the hotel.

What’s the worst that could happen?


	3. transmission

Never in Kelle’s life did he foresee himself working in a dilapidated town in the middle of a desert, but here he was: donned in a tacky turquoise blouse and sporting a charming smile to every depraved guest that graced Sunshade with their undesirable presence. Each little jingle of the bell brought wave upon wave of utter dismay washing over him as he rose from his seat. Sure, he ought to look at the bright side, as his girlfriend was ever so keen to remind him. “At least you’re not working at the bar,” she said. “It could be so much worse,” she said. 

True, it could be worse! But it also could be so much _better,_ too. Pretending to be a people-person for a measly sum of a thousand leaves an hour sucked away his soul with each passing second. He had dreams, you know. Big city dreams. Run away from home to Grandport, sell one of his majestic paintings he poured every drip of creativity into, and live the good life in a chummy estate somewhere in Goldshore. But he had to go and get sick, drain his assets for pitiful healthcare, and scrounged up what little remained of his parents’ inheritance to buy a pathetic place that never saw the sun. His paintings collected dust in the closets.

Could be _so_ much worse. He scowled, but it quickly evaporated with the _ting-ting-ting_ of the little bell he yearned to just yank off the damn door hinge and throw into the equally damned fire place that nobody ever used because for fuck’s sake, this was a goddamn _desert,_ who in their right mind wanted a fireplace in a hotel settled in the _desert?_ They had natural gas heating. It kicked on automatically once the temps dipped to borderline frigid. Nobody used the stupid fireplace. It infuriated him, the design choices of whatever high-off-his-ass architect decided to implement on a fucking whim -

His train of thought crashed into the abyss upon seeing who stepped through the door. _Helgenish._ Everyone knew him, even though they didn’t want to. The ghastly asshole of a man strutted across the lobby like he owned the place (which he didn’t) and approached the front desk with an upturned nose as though he had business there (which he definitely, positively didn’t). Beneath the dim lighting, what remained of his hair appeared as oily as the bald patch dominating his bulbous head.

“Tell me,” he sneered, his voice suitable for an eight-year-old in a grade school play pretending to be a nefarious evildoer instead of a sixty-eight-year old harem master, “in which room does dear Rufus reside in?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Kelle performed his best sorrowful expression that could be hailed as award-worthy throughout the entire country. “I’m not allowed to confide in which guests are and aren’t staying here without said-guest present.”

The crooked man’s grin simply extended from ear-to-ear. “Say,” he glanced at the nametag, “Kelle. How long have you worked here, hm?”

“For two years, sir.”

“Two years! My, that is _dedication._ Did you know, dear Kelle, the average cat under my wing lasts for about, mm, perhaps twice that long under my tutelage?”

Was that brag-worthy? “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“Cats who don’t understand their place, even though they are fully aware that I am the hand who feeds them, are often turned stray.” Helgenish let out a faux-disappointed sigh. “A shame, too - considering these cats are the very _reason_ people come to this town in the _first_ place. Do you catch my drift, my dear boy?”

“Forgive me, sir.” Kelle permitted his smile to drop. “I do not.”

Helgenish leaned onto the counter, propping his three chins against his knuckles. This close, Kelle could count the number of nose hairs that had the unfortunate destiny of living on Helgenish’s body. “Without me, lad, there would _be_ no ‘Sunnydale Inn.’ There would be no visitors, no cash flow. Without _me,_ you’d be just another stray.” He looked Kelle up and down. “And sorry to say, you don’t appear like you’d have the means to survive. So, let me try this again, no?”

Helgenish adjusted his clip-on tie and smoothed the wrinkles of his dress shirt. He cleared his throat.

“Which _room,”_ he uttered darkly, causing a creeping sensation to sweep against Kelle’s skin, “is _Rufus_ in? I need to speak with him _immediately._ ”

Helgenish’s spittle splattered against the uniform’s blouse poor Kelle’s girlfriend ironed earlier that morning. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands growing clammy, before mumbling a reply: “He, ah, stepped out about forty minutes or so ago… sir.” 

“Did he.” Helgenish hummed and hawed, then shook his head. “Pity, pity. If you hadn’t _delayed_ me so, I would have gotten a quicker move on in locating him. Did he say where he was headed?”

“No, sir. He left without a word.”

Helgenish’s next Top Ten Guttural Utterances fell silent when the _ting-ting-ting_ resonated throughout the lobby. Kelle never dreamed the day he would be grateful for that stupid little bell. He would sing its praises to the highest heavens after this was all over. 

In came roadkill personified. Kelle’s relief plummeted to the deepest depths of despair. A white mop of hair and tattered clothes drifted through the lobby, eying Helgenish and Kelle with mild interest, before heading toward the hallway.

“Sir?” Kelle called. Roadkill stopped. “Have you checked in already?”

“It’s under Alfyn Greengrass,” Roadkill replied. “We checked in earlier.”

“Ah. Apologies, sir. Please, have a good evening.”

With that, the guy rounded the corner, out of sight. Kelle willed every fiber of his being to remain strong beneath the oppressive force of Helgenish’s very existence.

“Lucky for you,” he rambled on, even though no one was truly listening to him anymore, “I have a vague gesticulation about where Rufus might be. We have a _very_ important meeting, I’ll have you know.” His greasy palms flicked away imaginary dust off the counter before turning away. He sighed, a hint of anger escaping him. “I was hoping he’d help me with that _Primrose_ issue that just cropped up after her show this evening, but I suppose I have other tricks up my sleeve.” He glanced over his shoulder and gave Kelle a coy wink. “I’ll be back tomorrow to speak to your manager, Kelle. Hope you had a savings plan.”

Hurricane Helgenish left in a tizzy. Kelle let out a hefty breath, nerves exhausted. Could be worse, she said! At least you’re not working at the tavern, she said!

“What did he just say?”

Kelle gasped and almost threw himself away from the front desk, startled from his train of thought. Good gods above, where did _Roadkill_ emerge from? 

“That big guy,” Roadkill elaborated, jabbing a thumb toward the door. He performed a very convincing “I really don’t care” attitude, but something about it appeared amiss. “What issue does he have.”

“Um, uh,” Kelle scrambled with his fried circuits to produce an answer after ransacking the evaporating vestiges of the earlier conversation, “the, uh, Primrose issue? Uh, dancer. Helgenish works with the dancers. Sure you’ve seen them.”

“Dancer,” Roadkill echoed.

“Yes, sir.” Kelle took a moment to recover. Was this his unlucky day or what? “Primrose is an incredible one, sir. Long brown hair, sultry eyes. Total looker. Unsure why her boss would have an ‘issue’ with his biggest star, but I guess that’s none of our business, huh?”

Roadkill, on the contrary, bore an even deeper scowl after Kelle’s info-dumping. “Gods dammit,” he muttered, stomping away from the desk and toward the door, “gods pissing _dammit,_ you stupid bleeding heart of a quack, getting yourself involved in stupid shit, you of _all people_ I could’ve -”

The door closed behind him, abruptly ending Roadkill’s soliloquy. Kelle remained still for a few additional seconds. After ensuring the coast was clear, he let out a deep, depressed sigh. 

Was the night over yet?

***

Sunshade’s elaborate footpaths held many impressive sandstone staircases. The verticality of the town permitted more living space within the enclosed protective rock fortress. If Alfyn had moments to breathe, he’d drink in more of Sunshade’s creative architecture. The town reeked of history everywhere he looked. While Clearbrook struggled to make a name for itself on the map, Sunshade purposefully hid itself away - but provided ample treasures for those who found it. Of course, in its age, its nooks and crannies were a bit difficult to tread effectively.

Alfyn wheezed after ascending a fifth flight of stairs to the highest manmade peak. Man, he wasn’t _that_ out of shape, was he? He fanned himself and peered over the outlook. It gazed over the tavern, which, from here, was recognizably the centerpiece of Sunshade’s downtown district. Even from his vantage point, he spotted no glimpses of Primrose. 

“Shucks,” he whispered, scratching the back of his head.

If not for the unsettled feeling urging him on, he would have given up his pursuit right then and there. Sometimes people don’t want to be found. And this was a stranger, no less. All they had between them was one exchanged glance during a performance.

But Alfyn’s instinct was always spot-on about people who were in trouble. A look was all he needed to understand she carried tremendous inner turmoil.

_Kinda like Therion._

Therion’s felt a little different, though. Alfyn couldn’t quite explain why in words; probably because he knew next to nothing about _either_ of them. But he did know Therion evaded talking about himself whenever the conversation veered in his direction. But those thoughts could be pondered later at a less pressing moment. Alfyn wandered away from the outlook and leaned against one of the giant rock walls, sighing. Now what? 

“That poor girl.”

He blinked, then turned his head toward an older hobbling couple setting up their market for the night. The old man set down a basket overflowing with unfamiliar fruits as he babbled to his wife.

“That’s the third one this season.” He spat on the ground. “He’s been real harsh on ‘em lately. Guess the economy tanking be taking a toll on ol’ Helgenish.”

“It’s just not right,” the wife replied, wringing her hands. “Can’t somebody _do_ something about him?”

“So long as the grass grows and the sand spits, nobody will raise a finger against him. Even if he’s having a bad year, he’s still one of the richest folks in town. What he says, goes. Law enforcement’s in his pocket. They always turn a blind eye.”

“Money and morality never walk hand-in-hand,” she groused. “That poor, poor girl. She used to come by and buy trinkets for her friend there all the time. I’m going to miss her dearly.”

“Now now. She might yet survive.”

“Dear, he and his men took her to the _crypts._ You know what happens there.”

The old man sighed deeply, his brow furrowing. “Well,” he said, “we’ll at least be sure to give her a proper grave once the dust’s settled - like the rest of them.”

Dread and anger unfurled in Alfyn’s stomach. Those two spoke so casually about someone in imminent peril, and didn’t bother to do anything about it. Like the weather, or the stock market - just another daily round of small talk. Did everyone acknowledge it and just choose to ignore it? No wonder that Primrose looked so pissed. But if what they said reflected the truth, then this “Helgenish” was probably a force to be reckoned with and purposely kept his dissenters at a severe disadvantage. In which case, no one could blame them for doing nothing, because that was their only other option aside from probably being buried six sticks under.

That aside, he needed to get a move on. If his judgment was correct, then Primrose wasn’t going to make it out of there unscathed.

_Ma, lend me some of your hardboiled strength, if ya ain’t mind._

***

Finding the crypts was one thing. No signs gave any indication of their location. He asked a few locals outright, who gave him wary glances and words of caution - “You sure you wanna head there, sonny? That place is a tragedy waiting to happen.” - but gave him results nonetheless. 

Walking _through_ the crypts was another. No lamps gave any reliable light. He resorted to using his cellphone’s flashlight app as he descended the crumbling stairwell, leading further and further into the depths of the earth. The place reeked of something rotten, and the air dipped steadily chillier. He rubbed his upper arms as his teeth chattered together. Small stone chunks fell from above, clattering into the maze-like halls. For an ancient site, one would think there would be an attempt to keep it restored and safe to draw more tourists in. Then again - he peeked over his shoulder - maybe not. Being here gave him the _creeps._

(“Alf!” a ten-year-old Zeph called. His toothy grin twinkled with trickster’s delight. “Ever heard of the Babblebrook Ghost?”

“The -” Alfyn stammered, “the what’sit now?”

“She comes once a year, on the summer solstice.” Zeph’s grin widened. “She walks ‘round them riverbanks lookin’ for her long lost child. Y’know it’s her when you can hear the wailin’ all night long. Rumors have it,” he lowered his voice for dramatic effect, “that if ya hear it, you’ll be found dead an’ drowned come mornin’.”

“C’mon, quit playin’ me!” Alfyn squirmed and pouted. “ _Today’s_ the solstice!”

“I know, s’why I’m bringing it up, ya doofus. Wanna come with me to find her?”

“Y-ya want me to _what?”_ )

A shrill cry penetrated and peeled off the emptied corridors. Alfyn jumped and dropped his cellphone, eyes darting in a failed effort to find the source in the draping shadows. He froze in place for a moment, only his harsh breathing giving him company. Gods, he’d kill for Zeph to be there with him right now. Why did he decide to follow this lady again? Wait, no, he was a _caretaker,_ he couldn’t just ignore this. She needed help. He gulped, then tip-toed toward his cellphone laying on the cracked floor.

“ _Damn,_ ” he muttered, tracking the spidery veins spread out across his phone’s screen with his thumb. It was bound to happen eventually - his luck with cellphones was never very good - but so _soon?_ At least it was still semi-functional; the flashlight still shone a bright beam to combat the darkness. He hurried down the last of the stairs and toward an opening. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

The gurgled groans emanating from the arched entryway informed him he was.

(They hid in the reeds together by the riverside, listening to the crickets sing their sweet serenades. Alfyn trembled like a quaking aspen beside his partner-in-crime, goosebumps dotting his skin. They already waited for about an hour now - the full moon hung high in the nighttime sky - with no signs of any ghost.

“Can we go home now?” Alfyn begged. “ _Please?_ ”

“Shh, quiet,” Zeph said, holding up his forefinger. “Do ya hear that?”)

He approached the arch with great caution. A tinge of copper infiltrated the air, carried on the breeze. Gods above. He fumbled to turn off his flashlight - he didn’t want to get caught by these jerks if something horrible actually happened - and pressed his back against the wall. He dared to steal a glance at the clearing beyond, fingers twitching and wishing he brought anything bearing semblance to a weapon with him. All he had was a bag full of makeshift tinctures and a busted phone.

There in the center stood a figure, surrounded by motionless mounds. In its trembling hands was -

(“Hear what? I ain’t hear nothin’.”

 _“That,”_ Zeph clarified unhelpfully. Then, after a moment, Alfyn heard it, too:)

\- a _drip-drip-dripping_ knife, glittering like the starlight above. A dark liquid coated its blade (it didn’t take a medical degree to understand that it was blood). A beat passed. Alfyn remained stiff, unable to move. _Primrose._

Primrose, shuddering, crumpled to her knees and drove the knife into a large, fleshy sack of what once was a human being. Again, and again, and again, and - Alfyn turned away, holding his breath, eyes wide. Each _shunk_ of the knife sinking into cooling skin was accompanied by a faint _squish_ and ragged, adrenaline-fueled breathing. Several minutes passed until one final stab cut the silence. Nothing followed after; only a loud, long overdue cry - sharper than the knife she held, wetter than the blood she spilled. 

“If only,” she hissed, and Alfyn had to strain to catch her words, “if only you lived long enough to sow what you _reaped,_ ‘dear Master.’”

He exhaled, but the tension remained coiled in his gut. He hesitated before peering back at the waking nightmare he stumbled upon. She rose, removing the knife with a sickly sound. Her unsteady footsteps dragged her over to a slimmer, smaller body. It bore multicolored bruises, all at different stages of development, and lacerations that could no longer bleed. 

Dead, like the rest of them. 

“Yusufa.” Primrose’s breathing hitched. “Oh, _Yusufa._ I’m so, so sorry. I’m _sorry._ ”

From what little he understood, he gathered that this Yusufa - unlike the others - was a dear friend that somehow got involved between Primrose and her antagonists. He bit his bottom lip - did he get involved? Did he leave well enough alone? He couldn’t heal the dead. But Primrose, she sported wounds, too. That couldn’t be ignored.

_Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Mr. Bright-Eyes._

He never was keen on listening to advice. He took a step forward, and the toe of his boot knocked a loose stone clear across the crypt’s echoing corridors with a loud _kathunk._

A _swoosh_ followed - Alfyn blinked - and his cheek stung a second afterward. A bug bite? He rubbed a newfound cut oozing along the cheekbone, dribbling down the side of his face. His eyes widened as Primrose’s stare bored holes into his very being, wild and angry and vindictive. Her hand was outstretched. A hard _clanging_ of metal skittering across stone followed.

She had thrown the knife at him.

“Uh,” he said, ever so eloquently.

“Are you the cavalry?” She pulled out another knife from somewhere, clean as a whistle. “See what I did to your _friends?_ I can go all damn day.”

 _That’s what she said,_ Therion’s voice whispered in his ear.

“No, uh, _no!_ ” He held up his hands in acquiescence. “Gosh, shucks, no, I’m just, uh, the chivalry or somethin’, I ain’t nobody’s back-up, I swear on my Ma’s grave, _please_ put the knife down.”

Her knife didn’t budge an inch. “Who are you.”

“A doc in trainin’! I swear, m’just worried ‘bout ya, ever since I saw ya at the bar after your dance there, uh, fantastic footwork by the way, but - but I heard some people talkin’, an’ I decided to follow ya, an’ - uh - d-did ya need medical assistance?”

Silence followed. Primrose’s arm wavered, then allowed it to drop altogether. She eyed the blade in her palms, her teeth gritting together. Alfyn permitted himself to take a step closer, slow and steady. He kept his hands visible as not to startle her.

“You’re a little too late, medicine man.” Her voice, though strong and clear, held a hint of anguish in her words. “Everyone except me is dead. Every last one of them.”

Another step. “Are _you_ hurt, though?”

No response. She instead turned her attention to Yusufa. Her lithe fingertips stroked the matted black bangs along the young woman’s forehead, affectionate and with excessive gentility. The breeze rustled her tattered dress, revealing her own injuries in silence. Alfyn stepped closer, crouched, and set down his bag, unzipping it slowly. 

“You can risk infection if those ain’t get treated,” he said.

“You are awfully calm,” she replied, “for talking to someone you think murdered a handful of people.”

“Truth be told, I’m abso-fuckin’-lutely terrified of you.” He gave a weak laugh. “But, Ma used to say all the time that things happen for a reason. And from what I gathered...” He glanced at the body in the center: a bigger, older man wearing jewelry on his pudgy fingers, dress clothes tousled from the scuffle. His Ma always proclaimed to never judge an apple by its skin, but boy, that one looked rotten to the core. The bodies of his fellow henchmen donned in blacks surrounded him. “...that must be Helgenish, yeah?”

She nodded once, mouth drawn in a tight line.

“I think,” he replied, “ya must’ve had your reasons. Hypothetically.”

First, he pulled out the antibacterial bottle and shook it a few times before unscrewing it. The stench never got any easier to catch whiff of, but the stuff worked like a charm. He dabbled some onto a spare clean cloth and extended an open hand. 

“Mind if I…?”

Another nod. Good. This was the least he could do. He pressed the cloth to her forearm. She flinched, but didn’t pull away as he rubbed the ointment over one cut, then another, and another. Bandages came next, tugging and pulling around different portions of each limb. He felt the tight muscle of her calf beneath his calloused fingertips. _Damn,_ was she strong. No wonder she could take on a handful of guys with just a handful of knives. 

“You’re lucky they ain’t had guns,” he commented. “Shit could’ve gone down a lot worse.”

“Oh, they did.” Her smile held no mirth. “They just never had a chance to use them.”

He allowed that response to fall to the wayside with a mere “hm” in acknowledgement. Note to self: never ever _ever_ get on this lady’s bad side. He reinspected his work, ensuring the bandages wouldn’t slip from movement, then furrowed his brow at the bruise blotches on her cheek. 

“Ice’ll help with those. I don’t have any on me for, uh, obvious reasons, but if you wanna swing by the Sunnydale Inn later and ask for Alfyn, I’ll be sure to see what I can do for ya about them. Though I’ll be gone by early tomorrow morning, so just keep that in mind.”

“You _do_ realize asking a dancer to visit your hotel room is just aching to be interpreted in a different way, right?” She flexed one arm, then the other, as Alfyn’s ears burned pink from embarrassment. “Thank you. But you have done more than enough in your weird acts of kindness. I will take care of my own messes from here on out… including this one.”

She glanced over the carnage laid waste throughout the clearing. Alfyn swallowed hard and stuffed his materials back into his bag before zipping it back up. 

“Do you need a hand? With…”

“I would prefer if you didn’t.” 

“Right. Gotcha. Understood.” 

“You were right, by the by.” She straightened her back and pulled her loose hair back into a ponytail. Her head tilted upward toward the sky, and in that moment, she looked so painfully _lonely._ Like the Babblebrook Ghost searching for her child, something bitter haunted Primrose with every subtle shift in her expression. Alfyn rubbed the back of his neck and readjusted the straps to his bag.

“About what?”

“I _did_ have my reasons. Hypothetically,” she added, and her eyes narrowed, “of course.”

***

In a haze after getting assurance his services were no longer needed, he returned from the crypts to the lovingly cruel embrace of Sunshade. 

At least she was safe. That was the goal, wasn’t it? And treated, for the most part. His offer still remained, but he doubted she’d stop by for a follow-up. 

Still. He trudged along the dirt footpaths, drained. It wasn’t like it was his first time seeing dead bodies, but - 

(“Ma? It’s mornin’, sleepyhead. Did you want me to make you coffee?” He knocked on the bedroom door again. “Ma? C’mon, your alarm’s blastin’, how the heck are you still sleeping?”)

\- it never got any easier. ( _Don’t think about that. Don’t.)_ So many in one place, too. If a coroner were to ever uncover them, he felt pity for the poor sap. But Primrose appeared determined to eliminate the evidence. Given the overall attitude toward Helgenish, perhaps the residents would simply chalk it up to feral wolves and call it a day. He hoped so, for her sake. 

“Oh, it’s you.”

Alfyn slowed, then lifted his head. Therion, leaning against a lamppost with his arms crossed, let out a yawn. 

“Therion?”

“That’s my name.”

“I thought you were gonna go back to the hotel room?”

“Needed some fresh air.” He pushed himself upright. His gaze wandered to the cut on Alfyn’s cheek, then let it drop to the ground. He turned away, pulling his poncho over his nose to fight off the desert chill. “You done? Or do I need to start making other travel arrangements?”

“No, you’re - yeah. I’m done.” Alfyn quickened his pace to catch up with Therion before falling in step with him. “We might have a visitor later, though. Just a head’s up. Nothin’ major, just a check-up on her well-being.”

“Whatever.”

“Just wanted to keep you in the loop, is all.”

They walked together in silence. The town finally began quieting down. Marketplaces closed up shop and lights within buildings went dark. Folks staggered home in drunken stupors, laughing about jokes they weren’t privy to. Life moved on, as if Primrose’s knife didn’t sink into her former master’s throat.

 _“There’s some things that are incredible, and some things that are… not so much.”_

The strange gas station attendant’s words drifted into Alfyn’s consciousness. No kidding. If anything like what he just saw occurred in Clearbrook, the whole town would be in uproar for months. He felt so _sheltered;_ sure, he wasn’t a stranger to hardship, but this just seemed beyond his comprehension. He itched to just leave this place behind for good after tomorrow morning.

“Hey.” Therion grabbed Alfyn’s sleeve and yanked. “Wrong way.”

“Whoops.” He managed to chuckle and turn with Therion. “Sorry. Just kinda lost in my own head there for a sec.”

“You really should invest in a GPS. You seem like the type to get lost all the time.”

“Shucks, don’t be callin’ me out like that.” He laughed. It felt good to laugh after all that oppressive weight he gained from his experience within the crypt. “But why buy a GPS when I already got one called ‘Therion?’”

He scoffed. “What’re you going to do once we get to Noblecourt and I ditch your ass? Drive your truck into the ocean after making three too many wrong turns to get back home?”

“Simple.” Alfyn grinned. “Where’re you going after Noblecourt?”

Therion stopped and stared. “You. You’re not planning on _waiting_ for me until my business is done.”

“Why not? I mean, shucks. I ditched school already, and a new semester doesn’t start ‘til the fall. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do, hey? And,” he added with a wink, “I’ll feel better knowin’ my pal ain’t resorting to hoppin’ trains all the way back home, y’know?”

“I’m not your _pal._ ” Therion threw his hands up in the air, as though it would translate into a be-all-end-all explanation for what he meant. “Fine,” he said, frowning. “If you’ve got nothing better to do than be my chauffeur, I guess I have no room to complain. It’s more direct than the trains.”

“You’re welcome, my chum.”

“Like I _said,_ we’re _not_ pals or chums or whatever.”

“My bestie.” Alfyn locked an arm around Therion’s neck, laughing. “My homie.”

“Are you wasted? Let go of me, we’re gonna fall over.”

“Takes me a _lot_ more than one drink to get me hammered, buddy.”

Therion snaked his way out of Alfyn’s grasp and rolled his eyes. “You’re so _weird,”_ he muttered, opening the door to the inn.

“Y’know?” Alfyn gazed upward at the partially obscured sky. “I seem to get that a lot.”


	4. steering wheel

Her weathered hands sunk into the pitiful soil, digging aside last year’s fertilizer to replace it with a fresh batch. Her secret haven - a spot where the rocks’ shade couldn’t touch - persevered in the face of all hardships. The vines thrived in spite of the incorrect climate. The grapes grew plump, their taste sweet. Though her eyes oft failed her now, the bright purples always stood out in her swimming vision. She dragged her decrepit leg along, snipped the fresh batches with a pair of rusting gardening scissors, and set them into a fraying basket. Her goods may not compare in profits to those who staked their lives in sins, but there was always a need for them.

She let out a sigh and grunted as her back popped for the fourth time that morning. She allowed herself one mere indulgence, a little snack of one grape, and praised the heavens above for its soothing remedy along her spine. She never understood why it worked. Scientists might be able to explain it with their fancy words and bright white coats, but all she knew were the anecdotes passed down from mother to mother to mother. _This is it,_ her sweet, gentle late-mother said to her as a little girl. _My secret. Ours, now._

The haven guaranteed she would never leave Sunshade. She toiled her years for that blessed garden. Even after two miscarriages and her husband’s early passing, she never strayed from the vines. It was her calling - or so she told herself to ignore the tantalizing whispers of _leave, leave!_ She had no children. She had no family. The garden needed her. The grapes needed her, as she needed them.

Still. Before her eyes became but divots in her skull, ever since she was young and filched a book off some fancy upstart of a lad, ever since she learned to read and understood there was more to the planet than sand and shadow, she _yearned._ She wanted to feel real grass between her fingertips. She wanted to smell the ocean, to feel the mist spray against her toes.

At sixty-two, she would only visit those far-off places in dreams now.

She tossed another bunch of grapes into the basket and lifted it up with a mighty whump. Her bad leg followed her toward the worn footpath that snaked along the entrance to the crypts. Its cool breeze rustled what remained of her gray hairs, stinking of death. Soon, she’d smell like that, too - but in an old reliable cardboard box rather than an entire monolith embedded in rock. No funerals needed for the forgettables. 

“Grandmother?”

A soft, sultry voice - _Primrose,_ her weary mind aided - called for her. Her head lifted, and there the pleasant dancer stood, covered in bandages and bruises. The poor lass. That bastard Helgenish could be ruthless in his ministrations. Yet Primrose appeared as proper as ever, carrying herself like a true noblewoman of yesteryear. 

“Prim,” she replied. She gestured to her fresh-picked wares. “Fancy a bite?”

“You are too kind, grandmother.” Primrose shook her head. “I don’t have anything to offer in repayment.”

“Nonsense, dear. Here.” One lost bunch would not spell financial disaster for a walking corpse. She hobbled to Primrose’s side and handed her what she judged to be the best-looking ones. “Between us,” she whispered. “Do not let that master of yours see.”

“Grandmother.” Primrose hesitated, as she does whenever she wanted to impart her troubles, before giving a rueful smile. “That master of mine is no longer.”

“Ah. _Ah._ Shame, that.” She nodded once, matching the smile. “Did the snakes do him in?”

“He pricked his hands and bled out on the rose bushes.”

“Ahh. Pity. Terrible, _terrible_ pity. Eat one, you’ll feel better.”

Primrose obliged. Her poor eyes, watering with an unspoken sadness, warmed up a little as she swallowed. “Sweet,” she said.

“The sweetest in all Orsterra, or so the corvids say. What will you do now, Primrose?”

Her gaze hardened and shifted to the south, where the streets met the blazing sunrise. Her teeth and fists clenched. “To do what I must,” she said. “Far, far from here.”

“You are to leave?”

Primrose nodded once. She clasped the old woman’s hands between her own, lowering her head. “I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me during my time here,” she said. “With your help and others, I was able to persevere.”

“Nonsense.” The old woman frowned. “That was all within yourself, my dear. I only spoke tall tales, but _you_ were the one to take them to heart. If you are leaving,” her gaze went beyond the dunes dotting the distance, “I only ask that you take my stories with you to the hill and dale. That way, I can say I have at last seen the ocean. Metaphorically.”

A pause. Then, “Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

Primrose squeezed her hands tighter, her fingertips running over the wrinkles outstretched over nicked knuckles. The call to adventure blazed in her smoky pupils, brow furrowing. “Come with me,” she said again. “To see the ocean yourself, grandmother.”

“I…” The lure of her enthusiasm seeped into the old woman’s skin, bubbled in her veins, and rekindled the long-dead desire to _go, go!_ buried deep within her aged synapses. The recurrent pain in her leg begged her to reconsider. Her chapped lips quivered. The doors of possibility would never reopen after this, and she knew that. The heart of that young girl _beat-beat-beat_ with each passing second as Primrose awaited an answer. “I would only,” she pulled away her hands, “slow you down, my dear.”

“What’s that phrase you say all the time? _Poppycock_ to that. Grandmo - Minerva,” Primrose insisted with urgency, “there are some of us who will never get that chance again. People who wanted to leave, but died here.” She swallowed hard, then shook her head as though to rid a memory. “Come see the rivers. The Frostlands. We’ll go together, you and me - for just a little while, at least. Pray,” she whispered, “come hither to see what’s out there.”

The grape basket weighed so heavily against her hip - a reminder of responsibilities. But the vines persevered, in the greatest of hardships. A storm of vultures could descend, torrent rains could try to drown, and unabated heat waves could try to wither, but the vines remained. Generation upon generation upon generation.

But she was the last.

 _You’ll now have to learn how to survive without us,_ she thought as she glanced at her bunches, _my dears._

“There are a few things I would need to gather before we head out,” she said at last, and Primrose released her hands.

“Of course. Please, let me carry that for you.” 

“Dear, you are _injured._ I am tougher than I look. I'll have you know. I may be old, but I am not yet _ancient._ ” She smiled - warm and hearty, for the first time in what felt like decades. “We’ll have ourselves a warm breakfast at my hovel, and then you and I shall go wherever you wish. Do you,” she pursed her lips, “have a plan to _leave_ Sunshade?”

At that, Primrose hesitated. Then, after a moment: “I’m sure dear old _Master_ left something behind for me in his wondrous estate, don’t you think? I was his favorite, after all.”

***

She never swung by their room.

Alfyn woke not from a knock, but instead the dreadful shrill of the alarm clock. He yawned and swatted clumsily to shut it off. His terrible accuracy resulted in a peeved Therion peeling himself off the couch and turning it off for him.

“How’d you sleep?” Alfyn croaked, rubbing at his eyes.

“Fine.”

“You coulda slept in the bed, y’know. There’s plenty of room.”

“I’m aware.”

Therion disappeared into the bathroom. Alfyn sighed, then pushed himself up. Speaking with Therion felt like playing that old-school Minesweeper game on the hardest difficulty. He remembered him and Zeph playing it on Zeph’s old junker of a computer, remembered its fans whirring like crazy during the Riverland summers as mouse clicks filled the tense silence. The only time he beat “impossible” mode was right before he came down with that illness that nearly offed him way back when.

(“S’a fifty-fifty chance,” Zeph whispered, hovering over Alfyn’s ramrod shoulder. His breath reeked of raspberry freeze pops. Alfyn gulped, finger twitching over the left-click button. Sweat broke out on his forehead and for more reasons than just the game. _So close._ “C’mon, make a choice already. The anticipation’s killing me!”)

The shower running interrupted his trip down memory lane. He tucked the thoughts away - _no use reminiscin’ that now_ \- and changed clothes. He ran a hand over his chin, feeling the slight scruff growing there, before tying his mangled hair into a lackadaisical ponytail. The morning felt normal, like he didn’t witness a woman repeatedly stab a dead man she (hypothetically) killed last night. The cut on his cheek tingled. He sucked in a sharp breath and opened the fridge to pull out his canteen. Water never tasted so good.

Therion reemerged ten minutes later. His hair looked as if he just dried it with a towel and called it a day. “Surprised they even _have_ water here,” he said.

“Think they get it from up north. We _are_ the _Riverlands,_ ya know? Got plenty of water to go ‘round, ‘specially during the spring. Want tuna for a quickie?” He held up the wrapped sandwich. Its weight vanished from his fingertips two seconds later, followed by the telltale quiet munches that belonged to Therion. He truly did minimize his presence in every action he made. If Alfyn tried to do that, he’d look like a real fish out of water. “You think we should be able to make it to the mountains today?”

“The Highlands. Sure. Depends on the weather.”

Alfyn hummed at that. “It’d be a real bitch if we got nailed by a sandstorm or somethin’. I think it’d kill Ma’s truck.”

“Winds pick up more in the afternoon. We should be able to get out of the Sunlands in time before that, if all goes according to plan.”

They started packing up their belongings in a somewhat hurried manner. Alfyn found himself surprised at how many rations they actually had - did he really pack all this before leaving home? His eyes wandered to Therion, who helped fill the cooler without a word. He had an inkling that maybe his travel companion got them more goodies without mentioning it.

“Sure are still a lotta apples, huh?”

“Helps keep weirdo docs away, I hear. Should get some more just in case.” Therion’s tone sounded less straightforward and more _teasing,_ if Alfyn dared to guess. “They’re reliable. That’s all. Don’t read so much into it.”

“So they’re your favorite.”

“Is that diagnosis as phoney as your medicine, quack?” He lifted the cooler and jerked his head toward the door. “You ready or what?”

“In a sec. Lemme just brush my teeth real quick.”

***

Sleepy Sunshade didn’t rouse so early in the morning, it seemed. Not many people were milling about. In Clearbrook, everyone and their grandmother would be chit-chatting up a storm by now. Alfyn wedged the cooler in the compartment underneath the truck’s back seats, followed by his and Therion’s (much smaller) bags. The back doors creaked in painful efforts to shut, Alfyn ramming his whole shoulder into the motion to ensure it’d stay that way.

“This thing is a deathtrap,” Therion commented, crawling into the passenger’s seat.

“I’d call it ‘well tested.’”

“In what, getting riders killed?”

“Ain’t no one’s died in this truck since my Ma bought it fifteen years back. Well, maybe a few lunches when she slammed on the brakes too hard.” He fidgeted with the side-mirrors (Therion’s side had new cracks in it. Joy, inspection come fall was gonna be a pain in the butt to pass), checked under the truck for any creatures stowing away under its mighty berth, then stretched.

_So long, Sunshade. Hope to see ya never._

“She should buy a new truck,” Therion continued as Alfyn got himself settled in the driver’s seat. The engine hummed to life after a few tries. “Like, as of yesterday.”

“I'm sure she would’ve liked the new model of this baby that came out this year. Looks real ‘groovy,’ as them cool kids say. Want me to turn on the AC?”

“Would’ve liked?” he echoed, then frowned. His stare shifted out the window while giving a noncommittal shrug. “It’d be nice to not get cooked in this rusted tin can before I get to Noblecourt, yeah.”

The AC brought great reprieve to the truck hurdling out from Sunshade’s stony clutches and into the vast, open desert. The sun still hadn’t quite ascended that high, but the heat already began to swelter. The shifting sands made following the road an arduous task in of itself, let alone _driving_ on the stupid thing. At least he had four-wheel drive. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to stick around back there to check on that dancer.”

( _Schluck. Schlick. Schluck._ The knife’s lullaby was anything but soothing.)

“I offered for her to stop by ‘fore I left,” he replied simply, forcing himself to think about literally anything else. Kittens. Pandas. Kitten-panda hybrids. _Wait, what?_ He shook his head. “Can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Gotta respect the patient’s wishes, even if you ain’t agree with them none. Most of the time. And lemme tell you,” he let out a sheepish laugh, “I’m pretty damn sure she knows how to handle herself.”

“Mm.” Therion glanced at him, expression unreadable. “I bet.”

“Aw, crap - I should’ve given her my number, just in case. Why don’t I ever think to use that stupid thing? I mean, it’s busted and I never get any service, but still.”

“What, hoping you’ll get some ‘compensation’ for your handiwork?”

“I don’t ask for _money_ to _treat people,_ ” Alfyn replied, horrified. “Who do you take me for? That goes against my very creed!”

“That’s not what I - never mind. Goes against the quack creed, got it. No wonder you’re dirt poor.”

“Poor in money, sure, but never in heart.”

“Whatever you say.”

More stone edifices emerged the further along they drove. By lunchtime, the imposing mountains came into clearer view. Some still bore visible snowcaps.

“Ain’t it weird that Orsterra has so many different climates lumped together in one country? Like, how the heck are there deserts, then snowy mountains right next door, y’know?”

“Read a book and you’ll find out,” was Therion’s unhelpful reply. Then, after a moment, “Mythology’ll tell you the gods organized it this way so humans would have a better chance at fighting the darkness. More resources available in a smaller distance gap or… something.” 

“You know _mythology?_ ” Alfyn’s eyes widened as he turned to look at Therion, who batted his shoulder with irritation.

“Eyes on the road, quack.” He folded his arms across his chest and readjusted his position in his seat. “Don’t know how knowing mythology is impressive. It won’t feed you.”

“I think that’s swell! Always wanted to learn ‘bout that kinda stuff, but... Readin’ for me is about as entertainin’ as watching a donkey trip up on its own hooves. Do I do it for my job? Shucks, yeah, but I just can’t stay focused none when I ain’t invested in it. Then again, I _did_ just say I wanted to learn more about that, so maybe I’m just comin’ up with excuses. Hey, maybe you could tell me some on the way to Noblecourt, yeah?”

Therion appeared to regret opening his big mouth. “Which part,” he sighed.

“All of it, if you ain’t mind. Like, ain’t there that one about the mighty twelve versus some - uh?” He paused, then squinted at a nearby blob. “The hell is _that?”_

A body, that’s what. A dark blue cape fluttered with what remained of the sandy wasteland. Several vultures soared in a circular pattern overhead, awaiting an opportune moment to descend. Alfyn slowed the truck to a crawl, then pulled it over on the side of the road. 

“They’re probably already dead,” Therion said, seemingly disinclined from getting out of the truck to go check.

“And if they’re _not?_ ”

He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. His frown deepened. A flicker of an indecipherable emotion flashed in his eye. “Guess I can’t argue against creeds. If they’re dead, I’m pillaging the body.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and slipped outside, poncho billowing in the winds. Alfyn followed suit, reaching for his special medical satchel just in case. 

As they padded closer, Alfyn made out tufts of long, blonde hair sticking up in every direction as though the poor sap got struck by lightning. A pale hand was half-buried in sand. Poor thing. Alfyn mentally rehearsed prayers as knelt beside the body, pressing two fingers against their neck. He already prepared himself to feel nothing, but - he blinked - something beat steadily against his skin.

A heartbeat.

“Well?” Therion asked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“They’re alive.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Maybe they’ll give us something if you work your magic.”

“Like I _said -”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes and gestured to the patient. “Just don’t take too long. We don’t want to get sideswiped by a sandstorm.”

He had a point. Even though they were closer to the Highlands, they still technically were within the Sunlands, and the winds picked up ever so slowly. Alfyn rolled the patient onto their back and frowned. No visible wounds. He unlatched the cape’s hook and rolled up their shirt ( _a guy)_ to confirm that, yup, not a single laceration on their body. He glanced at his face - wow, what chapped lips!

“Can you get me the canteen outta the truck? Think the guy got heat exhaustion.” He opened his satchel and fetched one of his special grapes. Weirdly, they never spoiled, nor developed mold, nor shriveled into a raisin. His textbooks he trudged through chalked it up to “genetics we don’t quite understand yet.” He called it “magic.” To each their own. He pushed it into the guy’s mouth and forced his jaw to shut, squirting grape juice all over both their faces. 

“Here.” Therion handed him the canteen, which Alfyn placed to the guy’s lips. After a few tries, he swallowed both the water and the grape’s remains. A beat passed. “Now what.”

“Now we get him out of the heat and put him in the back of the truck and blast the AC. He’s not entered heat _stroke_ territory yet, somehow. We’ll take him to a proper hospital when we get to town in the Highlands.”

“Sure that’s a good idea? We don’t even know him.”

“I didn’t know you.” Alfyn smiled. “I see someone in a bind, an’ I help them out. That’s just how it is, y’know?”

Therion frowned. “Yeah. That probably wasn’t your best judgment call, helping me. Not that I’m complaining, but.” He shook his head. “Well, whatever. Don’t blame me if he turns out to be a serial killer and strangles you to death when you least expect it.”

“You sure got the active imagination, hey? Hup, two, three…!”

“But,” he glanced at the truck, pointedly ignoring Alfyn’s remark, “how are we even gonna get him _over_ th - uh.”

Alfyn hoisted the man up in his arms, carrying him like the many sacks of potatoes he lugged around when he was a kid. Therion gawked, eye shifting to Alfyn’s biceps, before pulling up his poncho over his nose. His teeth clacked together shut. Without a word, he gathered Alfyn’s satchel and canteen before heading back with him.

Alfyn laid out his impromptu patient along the back seats and rolled up the heavy-duty cape before setting it on the floor. He glanced upward - the birds flew off somewhere, disappointed they lost their feast - before sitting back down in the driver’s seat. He cranked up the AC and shifted the truck back into gear. 

“Can’t believe he was _walkin’_ through the Sunlands.”

“Not many people have vehicles because of the shit road quality Orsterra has.” The truck rumbled forward, and Therion relaxed in his seat. “Everyone uses trains or buses in more dense areas. But the Sunlands can’t really rely on that because of frequent sandstorms. Judging by his pants, I’m pretty sure he had a horse or a camel, but when he passed out I bet it wandered off without him.”

Alfyn whistled. “You sure know your stuff, don’tcha?”

“My… _profession_ requires a lot of people-watching and knowledge of terrain or architecture. That’s all.”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short, Therion! I think it’s pretty impressive you can glean all that just by lookin’ at the type of pants he’s wearing. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

He turned away and pressed his forehead against the window. “You have weird definitions of ‘impressive.’”

The roads cleared as more crags cropped up. The sands lingered behind them almost like an afterthought, the sun less blistering. Macadam turned into uneven cobblestone, the truck shaking to and fro with each dip. It struggled to drive up the steep hillsides, winding further into the mountains. Alfyn turned down the AC and rolled down his window, draping his arm outside in the cooler breeze.

They stopped for a brief moment to snack. Alfyn took a moment to check on his patient - his body cooled down significantly, and his breathing grew steadier like his heart rate, thank god. Hopefully he’d wake up any moment now. 

“You’re almost out of gas,” said Therion, interrupting his analysis.

“Wha? Shucks, really?” Alfyn peered over the driver’s seat and glanced at the gas tank meter. The needle precariously hovered over the daunting off-white “E.” Shit. The steepness of the mountains really took its toll on the poor thing. “Well, we’re getting close to a town, ain’t we?”

“Not for another hour or so.” The map rustled in Therion’s hands. “Maybe two.”

“Any rest stops on the way?”

“Oh, sure, some guy took one look at these mountains and went, ‘hey, _I_ know what’ll rake in the dough, building a gas station in the middle of nowhere in a country where maybe only forty percent of the populace drives.’” He stepped on the truck bed’s ledge and peered into the wide open, dusty space. “Does that red can have spare gas in it?”

“Dunno.”

“So let me take a guess. Your report cards said you weren’t a great long-term planner and you rushed assignments last-minute.” Therion bent over the closed lip and stretched for the fuel can. He grunted. “How can - ugh - anybody go on a _road trip_ without thinking about stocking up emergency gas?”

He gave a sheepish laugh. “‘Cause I rushed into this last minute?”

“Don’t use my words against me, quack. You had a chance to remember back in Sunshade.” Therion gave up and unlatched the trunk before walking across the bed. He plucked up the can, held it close to his ear, and gave it a quick shake. He frowned. “There’s not much in here, but it’s better than nothing I guess. Next time we’re at a station, refill this stupid thing.”

“Roger.” Alfyn smiled. “I bet your report cards said something like, ‘extra careful’ or somethin’.”

“Who knows. I never went to school.”

He gawked. “You ain’t never gone to _school?_ Isn’t that illegal?”

“Sure, if the authorities cared enough. Which I’m not rich enough for.” He stuck the nozzle into the gas tank and poured. “You’d be surprised by how often that happens.”

“But, then, if you never’ve gone to school or nothin’, how do you have a job? Don’t they all require at _least_ a GED or something? ‘Specially if you be workin’ for someone like the government.”

“Is that what you think? That I work for the Orsterran _government?_ ” He barked a short, harsh laugh. “That’s hilarious. Never heard that one before.”

“Well, what _else_ could ya do for a living that requires absolute secrecy?”

Therion’s wry smile didn’t reach his eyes. He removed the nozzle and tossed the emptied can back into the truck bed. The cap cranked back on with a loud _crunch._ “If you don’t want to end up sleeping in the truck tonight, I suggest we get a move on.”


	5. clutch

It’s dark.

It’s dark, and his hands are digging into the tainted earth to drag himself away from that _thing._ His body crumples along the staircase carved from bone, the walls of the ethereal cavern pulsing, ebbing, _squishing._ His cheek rubs against the cracks. His palms, coated in blackened slime, _pull_ and he tumbles down, down, down, to the very base of the stairs, and he’s on his back now, staring upward at an impenetrable darkness. No stars in these skies. Something coagulates in his lungs, and he hacks, he sputters, he breathes in the noxious fumes of putrid emptiness, and then - 

Then, he stares back at the eye of the beholder. Stunning reds and pinks and purple throb with the bodies of fellow brethren also once deceived in wandering through the innocuous gates. Gnarled hands, peeling flakes of rotted skin, all reach for him, all call his name in a disharmonious choir, and his skull splits, it cracks, it bleeds onto the ground and all becomes - all becomes - all becoming one -

And he wakes.

***

“I was thinkin’,” Alfyn said.

“That a first for you? Should I applaud?” Therion clapped once.

“Oh, hush.” He grinned and glanced at the sign reading “HL - W.” According to the map, a tiny town called “Cobbleston” would be just beyond the dip and the bend and beyond some cave. With any luck, they’d be able to refuel there. “As I was sayin’, I was thinkin’ about naming our truck here. What do you think ‘bout the name ‘Bertha?’ She looks like a Bertha to me.”

The frame shuddered when the front tire sank into a pothole the size of a small child. “ _Our_ truck,” he echoed, hand ensnared around the grab handle. “Last time I checked, my name wasn't on the insurance, quack. It’s your call, even if that name sucks.”

“Sucks!” Another lurch, and the truck grumbled against the slickening rocks. Clouds began obscuring the skies, pelting little rain droplets here and there as if indecisive about committing to do its job. He applied more pressure on the gas, and the tires nearly spun out - but it managed to get over the hump. “I’ll have you know, Bertha is a very good name! Why, my Ma’s home ec instructor was named Bertha, and she was a real tough cookie! She could split wood with _one_ swing of an axe! One! An’ don’t even get me started ‘bout the time she duked it out with that massive sucker of a catfish one time, good grief. Ain’t never seen a seventy-year-old lady catch a honkin’ one bare-handed before.”

Therion made an appropriately impressed noise, but who knew if he was being sarcastic or not. “I think something like ‘Rusty’ might work. Matches the aesthetic.”

“I ain’t gonna call no fine lady _Rusty,_ ” Alfyn admonished. There resided the cave, hollowed and dark and coated in ill-fitting vines. All it needed were some old bones and it would look cliche enough for a horror flick. Curiosity beckoned him, urged him to drive a little closer, but he’d seen enough movies to know how dumb that would be.

“Fine lady? Didn’t know you Riverlanders had such low standards.”

“My standards are ‘bout as high as my taste for a cold one, I’ll have ya know.” 

“So anything goes?”

“Not _anything._ You’d be surprised ‘bout what I can be picky over. Like, say, I can’t stand them fruity mixes none, nosirree. Like them margaritas?” He wrinkled his nose. “Or them tropical ones with the little umbrellas? Heck, there be some that mix _pop_ with booze, an’ I ain’t about that life at _all._ There are some things that just ain’t meant to be. A simple beer and good company be all I need.” He paused. “Wait, what were we talkin’ about?”

“Your taste in women,” Therion drawled, “but I think you missed that conversation leap. I’m calling this tin can ‘Rusty’ until you come up with something better than _Bertha._ ”

The truck shuddered to a sudden stop, brakes squeaking in strained effort. Alfyn’s back pressed into the driver’s seat, arms trembling from squeezing the steering wheel as if it would matter. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening at the inconvenient sheep flock of maybe fifty just chilling in the middle of the road. Their sheared coats indicated they belonged to somebody - somebody clearing shirking their work in rounding the little cuties up somewhere _safer._

Alfyn tried honking. The bleat got some raised heads from an unimpressed crowd, ears flicking, before resuming their grazing of the grasses poking up between crevices. 

“Well, I’m outta ideas.”

“Fantastic.” Therion rolled his eyes. “Pull over and turn Rusty off, at any rate. Don’t want to be running more on fumes than we already are.”

“Quit callin’ Meadow _Rusty._ ” He backed the truck up a few inches, then pulled over in the tiny shoulder space hugging a high cliff. The engine silenced as he removed the keys, eyes shifting to the cute nuisances.

“Meadow? _Meadow._ I’m sure academics would have a goddamn field day with examining your brain after you die to see how someone comes up with a name like _Meadow_ for this thing.” 

“S’my Ma’s name. Since it’s her truck, I thought, heck, maybe I should name it after ‘er. Who knows, maybe if we get to some big town with some mechanics, we could get it a good ol’ paint job and dye it a nice green.”

A beat passed. “Meadow… Greengrass,” Therion said, tone fluctuating between disbelief and uncertainty of if he wanted to pursue this conversation any further.

“The very one!”

“Meadow Greengrass. Like, the grasslands.”

“You keep repeatin’ it like there be a problem, Therion.” 

“Your mom’s literally named Grasslands Greengrass.”

“Her middle name was Dandelion, if it helps.”

“That - no. That really doesn’t - fine, Meadow, whatever. Not like I was invested or anything, since it’s not my truck.”

Success. Alfyn’s grin stretched wider, and Therion all but huffed with a small, totally non-invested sulk. He unbuckled his seatbelt and checked his still-very-shattered cellphone - not a single bar to be found in such altitudes - before glancing over his shoulder and at the backseat. 

The patient’s eyes chose then to snap open with a gasp. He sat up in a cold sweat, wheezing and grasping at his shirt. 

“Whoa! Hey there, bud.” Alfyn gave a quick wave, and the guy’s head whipped in his direction like a startled kitten. “You feeling any better? You done gone an’ passed out in the Sunlands. Hope you ain’t mind that we picked you up.”

“Where,” croaked the poor fellow, then peered out the tiny backseat windows. “Sunlands? I - oh.” He sat up properly, setting his feet onto the floor, a sheepish embarrassment spreading on his face. “Gosh,” he said at last, eyes downcast, “I’m sorry for troubling you.”

“Shucks, no worries at all! I’m Alfyn.” He contorted his arm to awkwardly offer his hand for a handshake. The patient shook it after a brief pause. “My buddy here be Therion. You really feelin’ okay? You seem pretty alert, which is a good sign.”

Therion grumbled some Therion-isms about _we’re not buddies_ under his breath, of which Alfyn ignored. Sure, buddy. The patient offered a meek smile.

“My name is Kit. Kit Crossford. I feel better, that is for certain. Last thing I remember is getting lost in the desert. The sun came up, and I ran out of water, and my vision got all blurry... Wait - my horse - ”

“Call it a loss,” Therion chipped in. “There were no horses around when we found you.”

Kit ruminated this information with a bite of his bottom lip. “Oh,” he said. “Shoot. Most of my supplies were with her. Oh, what am I going to do?”

“Right now?” Alfyn gave a reassuring smile. “Well, why not tag along with us for a bit? You can figure out the details after some rest. We be headin’ to Cobbleston in the Highlands for the night, if these darn sheep ever give us the grace of the gods to _move._ In the meantime, wanna water bottle? Think there be a few left in the cooler behind my seat if you’re thirsty.”

“I’ve never been to… what was it, Cobbleston?” He thought about the offer for a moment, then nodded. “If you don’t mind. I greatly appreciate it. Thank you again.”

“Don’t mention it, pal. Were you headin’ anywhere in particular? We’re goin’ to Noblecourt, so if you need a ride that way, we’re more than happy to give you a ride and drop you off somewhere tomorrow.”

As Kit reached for the cooler, answer on his lips, loud shouts followed by stampeding footprints drifted on the cool mountain winds. Alfyn blinked while tilting his head out the window, squinting at shadows toward the horizon. A _bang_ echoed throughout the valleys, accompanied by a bright flash. Several more followed. Louder shouts. The sheep, startled, scattered to higher ground, disbanding. 

“What was _that?_ ” Alfyn asked.

“Something we want nothing to deal with.” Therion yawned. “Let’s mosey now that the sheep are gone.”

“Now wait just a second there, Therion! That seemed like trouble. I can’t just -”

“ - right, yeah, can’t ignore trouble, ‘cause the heavens know there’s probably someone in need of your quack services, yes yes.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Are you blind. That was trouble with a capital _gun._ Last time I checked, even docs aren’t immune to getting shot.”

“You’re right, I ain’t _immune,_ but heck if I ain’t gonna make sure they’re okay.”

“ _Ugh._ ”

“You two seem close,” Kit commented.

“We’re _not._ He’s just -” Therion sighed, “- stupidly easy to read. And stupid in general.” He unbuckled his seatbelt while shaking his head. “C’mon then. Let’s not take all night.”

“Huh?” Alfyn gawked. “Wait, Therion, are ya sayin’ you’ll come _with_ me?”

“Someone’s got to take your stuff after you die,” he replied coolly. “It won’t be much, but I’m sure I could pawn it off for something. Are we going or not. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Was he hallucinating a new Therion or something? He blinked, then glanced at Kit. “You’re still recoverin’,” he said. “Could ya do me a solid an’ watch over Meadow here? I promise we’ll take ya to Cobbleston after this.”

“ _Meadow,”_ Therion muttered disapprovingly, slipping out the door and closing it with more force than necessary.

“I - sure. It’s the least I can do for you saving my life. But, we just met.” Kit’s brow knitted together in worry. “Are you sure you want to trust a stranger with your vehicle?”

“What’s the harm? You seem like a decent enough guy. I don’t think you’ll steal it off me. ‘Sides,” Alfyn grinned, “s’almost outta gas. You wouldn’t get very far, truth be told. Oh! There’s some snacks in the cooler, too. Help yourself while you’re waitin’, okay?”

Kit looked dumbfounded by Alfyn’s gratuitous kindness and simply nodded. “Um,” he said, “okay. Just - be safe, you two?”

“Don’t you sweat it. We’ll be done in a jiffy.”

***

A sign reading “NO VEHICLE ENTRY” stood crookedly beside a rope bridge that saw better days. Whole planks were missing, possibly residing in the long fall below. Alfyn readjusted his satchel stuffed to the brim with medical components before glancing at Therion, whose face took on several shades of pale. With the mountain winds, the bridge swayed to and fro with undeniable creaks. Well! That sure looked dangerous, but heck if “danger” wasn’t Alfyn’s middle name. If he could jump across the makeshift stone bridges in the rivers during peak flood season, then this was nothing.

(He casually disregarded Zeph’s frantic pleas of _stop being dumb_ echoing in the residual memories.)

“I changed my mind,” Therion announced. “You’re doing this by yourself.”

“You ‘fraid of heights?”

“No,” he answered all too quickly. “I just refuse to die for stupid reasons, like crossing a clearly-going-to-break-the-second-we-step-foot-on-it bridge.”

“What if I carried ya?”

“What.”

“Ya know.” He gestured at the bridge. “To cross. If I carried ya, then technically you wouldn’t be the one havin’ to make the trek. If shit goes south, I can just throw ya to the other side. No biggie.”

“Can’t you just cut your losses and turn back.” Therion groused.

“Ya know I can’t.”

“You’re so - no. I’ll cross myself, thank you very much.”

Several shots echoed in the winding paths ahead. Alfyn jerked, startled, and began heading toward the bridge. Therion’s mouth opened to argue, scowled, then followed alongside him, eye pointedly avoiding looking down.

The rope was damp against Alfyn’s palm. The wood, covered in heaps of moss, was slicker than the stones poor Meadow had to hurdle over. One misstep, and he could tumble to his imminent demise. No pressure. He stopped midway, glancing over his shoulder to see Therion standing at the bridge’s edge, paralyzed. His eye fixated on the darkness below, lips drawn into a tight line. _Definitely_ scared of heights. Alfyn carefully turned himself around and walked back.

“You can go back to the truck if ya want,” he offered, permitting Therion a way to back out. “M’sure Kit won’t mind the company.”

“It’s _fine._ ” Therion’s eye snapped back up. He scowled. “Hurry up already.”

“That determined to rob my corpse, hey?”

Therion huffed and took his first step onto the bridge. A loud _squeak_ emitted from the straining planks. Both froze and checked the ropes, ensuring that they remained stable, before resuming perhaps the longest fifteen or so seconds of Alfyn’s life. With a victorious wheeze, they crossed without further incident and with only the silent spires to bear witness. Therion shuddered. Alfyn bent over and rested his upper body weight on his knees, relieved.

“Alrighty,” he said when he recovered, readjusting his satchel, “where’s the _real_ trouble?”

Trouble resided deep within caverns so old the very air tasted musky. And bloody. Deja vu swept over Alfyn as he swallowed hard, more sweat collecting upon his brow. He checked several times to see Therion still following him, albeit a few paces behind and silently as usual. Why would anyone want to hole up in this dirty hovel? Maybe the rent was cheap. No landlord would dare cross the bridge for missed payments if they valued their hair not turning gray prematurely. 

“Alfyn.” 

He stopped mid-step, boot hovering in the air. Therion moved to his left, kneeling beside a crumpled form. 

“Still breathing,” he said. “But someone _definitely_ knocked this guy out. And with not very much effort.”

A loud cry bellowed from the belly of the cave, unintelligible yet dripping in confounded pain. Therion rose to his feet.

“You sure you still want to pursue this. It’s not too late to turn back and spare yourself from whatever _that_ is.”

“If m’gonna help these folks, I gotta figure out who’s causin’ it and stop it, don’tcha think?”

“Pretty sure ‘these folks’ brought this on themselves. Remember? Gun go bang? Usually signs of criminal activity.”

“You think I care ‘bout _that?_ ” Alfyn glanced at the tattered man face-down. “Sure, I ain’t know if he be one of the good guys or a hardened baddie, but I ain’t _ever_ gonna turn my back on someone I know needs help. Sometimes, to get someone amblin’ down the right path, ya just gotta hold out your hand. You know? C’mon.” He gestured for Therion to follow. “We gotta take care of business ‘fore I can work my magic.”

“You,” Therion started, then shook his head. “Ever heard of ‘biting the hands that feeds you.’”

The two wandered through the confusing nooks and crannies, which sported dangling makeshift light bulbs and a horrible slipshod wiring job. More unconscious bodies decorated the cave floors, most groaning from the terrible nightmare that rendered them into their unfortunate states. Gosh. Alfyn swallowed. Whoever caused this was a pro. Sure, Alfyn called himself a pro at three things: medicine, drinking, and conversation. However, he doubted any of those fields could aid him much in the potential ass-kicking he was about to face.

“So, Therion,” he whispered, toeing over another poor sap, “did the not-government who not-contracted you to work for ‘em teach ya anything ‘bout fighting, by any chance?”

“You are _not_ using me as your shield, quack.”

“Oh no, I ain’t suggestin’ ya to, I just, y’know. We might. I might. This might end badly.”

“Really. No shit? Who would’ve thought. Who could’ve predicted. Certainly not _this_ guy who told you _earlier_ that - ” 

Another drawn-out gurgle. Alfyn stilled. Therion too, a beat later. In the dark, Alfyn spotted shadows moving about in another spacious hollow of the cave. His eyes darted to the smallest shadow - a child? He squinted, and his ears strained to hear telltale hiccups of stifled, young sobbing.

A _child._

His fears tossed aside, he broke into a run possibly towards an impending demise. He was _not_ about to allow any stars in heaven to see him turn a blind eye to a _child_ in need of help. Therion’s harsh whisper - _what the hell are you doing?!_ \- fell on deaf ears as his boots pounded in tandem with his heart upon the dirt, a hand sunk into his bag to pull out ingredients for an impromptu mixture to give him cover. It wouldn’t do much, but at least it was _something._ So long as he didn’t breathe in the sleeping powder, he should be fine. Maybe. He opened his mouth to create a diversion - 

\- and immediately closed it when some gargantuan man absolutely bodied a man of equal stature, splaying him out onto the floor with as much exertion as opening a bottle of milk.

“Uh,” said Alfyn instead, slowing to a halt.

A hush fell over the room. One of the nearby light bulbs flickered, exposing the absolute fear etched on the faces of those who appeared to be the fallen man’s buddies. The guns they held quivered in their hands. The winner of the duel straightened his back, his muscles visible through his long-sleeved shirt. He wiped a blood spatter away from his cheek, then gazed upon the remaining men, who took a collective step back.

“M-Mister Berg,” stammered the boy. At least _he_ didn’t appear hurt.

Said-Berg folded his arms across his chest, stare cutting down the remaining henchmen into dropping their weapons without incident. They held up their hands in resignation, heads hanging low. _Whoa._ Talk about respect. Alfyn stared at the impressive man’s back as he stepped forward and offered a hand to his opponent.

“I believe we had a deal,” he said, his deep voice reverberating throughout the cavern.

“That we did, sir.” The other man coughed a few times, wincing when he rose to his unsteady feet after accepting Berg’s assistance. “I yield.”

The little boy ran up to Berg and hugged his leg, sniffling. Berg patted the boy’s head before turning toward Alfyn, whose legs were doing their best impersonation of cement. He took stock of the unexpected guest, eyes settling on Alfyn’s hand gripping a handful of grapes and weeds, before saying:

“You there. Please tend to Philip’s bruises.”

“Buh?” came Alfyn’s reply.

“You are a fledgling doctor, no? You remind me of the ones - ” He paused. Then, with a gentle push of Philip’s back, urged him toward Alfyn. “Never you mind. I ask you to look over Philip while I tend to business here. Trust in him, Philip. I sense no animosity in his eyes.”

“Uh, okay.” Whoa. With just one assessment, this Berg guy already knew of Alfyn’s trade. Incredible. Philip shuffled over with great precariousness before sitting down. His knees bore forming scabs, surrounded by dirt, and his tousled bangs couldn’t hide the small slash across his forehead. “Hey, buddy. Philip, right? I’m Alfyn, but you can call me Alf.”

“Alf,” Philip repeated quietly. He flinched when Alfyn dabbed some disinfecting salve along the bleeding nicks, but otherwise did well in remaining still.

Behind them, Berg continued:

“How do you know Erdhardt?”

His tone was laid thick with history, probably unpleasant. Alfyn wrapped one knee with a roll of bandages before moving to the other. He shot a glance toward the dark, wherein Therion was undoubtedly hiding somewhere, watching.

“We worked together in a group of mercs when we were still high in demand. Taught me the ropes for a bit - experienced man, I tell you. If you’re looking for him, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I haven’t seen him in a dog’s age now. All I’ve been doing is hodgepodge jobs here and there that never went anywhere and - well, you know the rest, sir.” The defeated man sighed, as though wistful. “Orsterra’s in a technological boom - as I’m sure you know. But all I’ve got is this here piece,” he patted the holster strapped to his thigh, “and my fists to boot. Hard to make money when the system’s stacked against you.”

“This country is indeed growing and leaving many behind,” Berg said, sympathetic, “but being ‘left behind’ and ‘refusing to learn’ are two different problems. Both can be overcome - you must be willing to _try_. People still need food, and hunters are needed in droves. Bodyguards are wanted. Your talents could be used for _good,_ not for living in this cave where you may rot away.”

“There may be truth in that, sir. There very well may be. But I’ve got my boys to take care of, and I’m sure I must pay the debt of the harm I caused in-full.” He unsheathed the weapon and held it out in offering to Berg. “Please do me the honors, sir. But I only ask you to spare my men after the fact.”

Several outcries came from the huddled henchmen, all bearing aghast looks. Berg took the gun - even in the poor lighting, it seemingly glimmered in his hands - before engaging the safety lock and setting it aside on a nearby empty crate. 

“That will not be necessary. You will atone - in the world of the living. And after you have, you will _continue_ living - and carve your own path into the future with the rest of us.”

“Sir, you’ve done me a great kindness.” The man bowed his head. “I accept this judgment. In return -” He scribbled something down on loose paper before folding it and handing it to Berg, “ - this may be what you need to help locate Erhardt. _I_ may have no clue about his whereabouts, but this may help you.”

Berg read over its contents before delicately placing the note in his breast pocket. “Doctor.” Alfyn, having finished Philip’s treatment, immediately stood up. “Please, have you and your friend check his men for any grievous injuries. The local guard will be here soon to round them up. Let this be a good lesson to you all.”

“Frie - bah!” He squeaked. “Therion! When’d you -”

“If I’m not going to be able to pilfer your corpse, I might as well take what they won’t need in prison,” he muttered. 

With a small laugh, Alfyn proceeded to get to work. Oh, Therion.

The men were in relatively decent shape. A few cuts there, a bruise or two here, but nothing life-threatening. Did this guy, who exuded an aura oozing years of experience, really avoid using lethal force on _all_ of them? Therion made appropriate concerned sounds, his nimble fingers stealing goods here, there, and everywhere. Talk about talent! He wondered how long it must’ve taken for Therion to develop such speed.

A platoon of men - all of varying ages and carrying different weapons ranging from garden hoes to knives to rifles - stormed the hovel shortly thereafter. Their leader, a fashionable young man, let out a huff of relief.

“Berg!” The watchman laughed. “Blessed be! We thought for sure they’d turn you into rat-bait, going in alone like that! All the townsfolk are safe, rest assured. We’ll help in the arrest of these bastards in the meantime.” 

“Berg? Berg... No - no _way._ Are you - you cannot be! But, why else would your dead eyes light up at Erhardt’s name? You have to be,” the leader announced, “Sir Olberic Eisenberg - the Unbending Blade!”

“The what’s-it now?” repeated one of the watch members. Alfyn and Therion perked up in attention after completing the last checks. “Unbending?”

“The very man who was supposed to have been killed,” the leader continued, teasing his captivated audience with the revelation, “the day Hornburg disappeared.”

***

“From _Hornburg?_ ” Kit gasped. He had a piece of tuna stuck on the corner of his lip, which Alfyn pointed to. He wiped it away as a mere afterthought, still reveling in astonishment. _“The_ Hornburg? You have got to be kidding! That has to be a lie or something. It’s impossible!”

The watch and Berg - Olberic, as it turned out - ushered the crime den back to Cobbleston, which apparently wasn’t very far from where the truck was parked. It rumbled and whined to life after a few turns of the keys. The headlights flickered on, looking out for any other sheep friends that may wander their way, before creeping along toward Cobbleston’s domain.

“Is Hornburg a big deal?”

“Is it a big deal!” Kit’s voice obtained a few new octaves in his range. “I might be younger than you, but even _I_ know the mystery of Hornburg! It was several years ago - the papers and news outlets all had a field-day about it!”

“Huh. Ain’t never heard of it ‘fore.”

“Do you live under a _rock?_ ” Kit stared into the rearview window, bewildered. “Oh, sorry - that was rude of me. I didn’t mean it like - I mean, it’s rare for someone to not have heard about it. That’s all.” He fidgeted with his seatbelt. “Do you want me to give you a summary?”

“Sure, why not? I’m always interested in learnin’ something new. M’sure Therion won’t mind either, since he’s so busy sorting the stuff he, uh, found. In the caves. Right, Therion?”

Therion just grunted. He wasn’t even listening anymore, looking between two pieces of jewelry filched from somewhere.

“If you say so.” Kit gave Therion a wary glance before clearing his throat. He sat up properly, hands flat against his thighs, eyes glittering with badly-stuffed giddiness. “Eight years or so back, there used to be a metropolis called ‘Hornburg.’ It was founded _centuries_ ago, and was called one of the oldest cities in Orsterra. It’s actually supposed to be here somewhere in the Highlands - or was it the Coastlands? One of the two, I think. The mayor who ran it - uh, what was his name? - was kind of popular - maybe _too_ popular. People say that he had many folks after him for some reason or another, and so he hired two bodyguards.”

“Was one of ‘em named Olberic?”

“I dunno. Maybe. I just know he trusted them with his life, and they were incredible at their jobs.” His gaze shifted out the rolled-down window as he stuck his hand out, feeling the wind’s rush in the gaps between his fingers. “All was going good for Hornburg. It was booming. Economy was rolling in dough. I think they had a hand in some key technological development or something. But then, out of the blue, the whole city just - it just - _vanished._ And the mayor, killed. He was left outside the city’s main famous golden gates.”

“Vanished?” Alfyn’s eyebrows raised. “Like, it became a ghost town, or?”

“No, like - poof!” Kit’s tone bubbled with delight at his own tale, enthralled by the story. The truck slowed to a stop at Cobbleston’s gas station, where only two other old vehicles caked in mud sat in the parking lot. Alfyn turned off the truck as Kit continued, voice low, “The whole town literally _disappeared_ without a trace- and all its citizens, too.”


	6. brake

**THE ORSTERRAN FLAGSHIP PRESS ARTICLE ARCHIVE**

“A BAFFLING MYSTERY: CITY OF HORNBURG’S VANISHING ACT LEAVES OFFICIALS SCRATCHING THEIR HEADS”

Published: 26 Dohter’s Moon 19XX

Edited: 27 Dohter’s Moon 19XX

Associated Press (AP) - Nearby residents of the Highland Counties and the entirety of Orsterra are at a loss.

Hornburg, known for its lively festivals in the summers and its stunning mountain top views, has disappeared. All that remains of the city are its gates, which have been subjected to scrutiny by Orsterran officials in the past (link). Beyond the gates is now a sprawling and vacant plot. No roads nor landmarks were found in initial investigations. 

To make matters worse, no citizens of Hornburg have been found, dead or alive, aside from the much-beloved Mayor A. Alfred. His body was discovered alongside Hornburg’s disappearance, located outside the city’s gates. Law enforcement have refused to comment about the case or the coroner’s autopsy report. All inquiries to the Orsterran government have yet to be answered. An anonymous witness claimed to have seen the body, stating there was a “gaping stab wound” in the mayor’s chest - but this has not been verified.

“It’s insane,” said a passing trucker, who wished to remain anonymous. The trucker was on his way to make a delivery from Everhold to Hornburg when he noticed the bizarre and unfamiliar landscape. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I knew something was fishy when the roads weren’t even roads - and even weirder, they were flat. Everything was flat! Highlands aren’t known for being flat.”

[...]

Investigators are asking for anyone who knows what may have happened to call their anonymous tip line at X (XX XX) XXX - XXX. Our series of reports will update as soon as more information comes to light.

*Editor’s Note: correction made from “Allfred” to “Alfred.”

***

The appropriately-named Sheepstone Cottages, a quaint establishment overlooking fields and the mountains lining the horizon, had almost _too_ many vacancies. The managers (going by Maryanne and Shelton) were more than happy to rent to them, offering them a suite at a discounted rate. Cobbleston didn’t appear to be one of the Top Ten Orsterran Tourist Destinations, so visitors were few and far between. Whatever the reasons, Alfyn thanked them for their generosity while Therion paid yet again.

“It only has two beds,” Maryanne said, pursing her lips as her brow knit together. “That okay?”

He slid a credit card across the table. It bore no name engraving. “So long as it has a couch, we’re golden.”

The room, with its grand bay window and tasteful sky-blue wallpaper, was more than cozy enough for the three of them. Kit, being the smallest in the group, took the full-sized bed. Alfyn started moving toward the couch to set down his bag, only for Therion to beat him to it. He sprawled out with a hefty sigh, fingers laced behind his head, before deigning to spare a surprised Alfyn a glance.

“Bed’s that way,” he said, jabbing a thumb in its direction.

“Ain’t you taken the couch _last_ time? That’s hardly fair to you.”

Kit sat up. “A queen should be large enough for both of you to fit, shouldn’t it?”

“Nope. I’m a starfish.” Therion’s lie drawled out in an exasperated tone. “Need space of my own.”

“Then Alfyn and I can share, and you can have this bed.” Kit started to get up.

“He snores like a jackhammer. Don’t bother playing a hero and sacrificing your sleep schedule.” Therion rolled over and faced the couch’s backing, indicating he was finished arguing. He gave a curt wave. “‘Night.”

Kit and Alfyn exchanged glances - _Is he sure?_ Kit asked with a quirk of his eyebrow, to which Alfyn replied with a shrug. Dissatisfied, Kit sat back down on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the quilt’s hem.

Not yet tired, Alfyn emptied his bag onto the coffee table and took stock of its remaining contents. He scribbled into a small notebook what supplies he needed: _noxroots, addleworts - oh, sheesh, and olive blooms too eh? Fixin’ up those guys sure took a dent outta me. Can ya even find noxroot in these parts?_

“Aren’t those more ‘old school’ medical components?”

Kit crept over and picked up one of the plastic bags filled with crushed powder. Alfyn grinned.

“I call ‘em ‘tried and true’ myself, but yeah. Learned ‘bout them in some outdated botany books.” He recounted the remaining seeds - _should be enough for awhile yet_ \- before scooping them up and dumping them back into a glass vial. “I tell you what, back before pharmaceuticals really took off? These were the bad boys every doc ‘cross the country were probably usin’. These days, ain’t nobody hardly knows ‘em.”

“I think my dad did something like this, too. I remember the _smell._ ” He wrinkled his nose and stuck out his tongue.

“No kiddin’? What’s your pop’s name? Maybe I know him if he’s in my field.”

“Graham,” he replied, eyes downcast, “and I don’t think it’s likely you do. He’s all but disappeared off the face of the planet many years ago.”

Graham, Graham… like the crackers, but he held no recollection of a man named as such. “Disappeared?”

Kit nodded. “Truth be told,” he said, picking up a strand of dried noxroot and rolling it between his fingers, “I’m traveling the country in search of him. Or at the very least, to find out what happened to him. Since I was very young when he left, I don’t even remember what he looks like… But I remember him working. He had those, um. That bowl and the… The thing to turn stuff into powder.”

“Mortar and pestle?”

Kit snapped his fingers. “That’s it! I remember him grinding up ingredients at night to help my mom when she was really, really sick.” He set down the noxroot, fingertips tracing its outline. “None of the new medicines worked, so he tried anything else under the stars to help her.”

“He sounds like a good man, doin’ that for her.” 

He nodded once. “But,” he added, biting his bottom lip, “it didn’t work. Even after he upped and gone all the way to find this super rare ingredient, it took him all of _two years_ to do. By then, she - Mom, she -” He swallowed hard. “She, uh…”

(“Ma?” Alfyn stepped into her bedroom. The fishing gear sat near the doorframe, all ready to go for another adventure. Her outfit of the day, consisting of a pink blouse, her “lucky” fishing vest with too many patches to count, and some hole-filled jeans, sat on a stool by the master bathroom’s entrance. Her accounting notebook sat on her desk from last night, checks written to be mailed out that morning. 

The alarm clock kept wailing. He did her a solid and pressed the “snooze” button, frowning. Sheesh, how much did she drink last night to sleep through its maximum volume? He chuckled a little and approached her beside, fingers brushing along the blanket’s edge. He was tempted to yank them off like she used to when he was a kid, but he already gave her enough trouble.

“Wakey wakey, eggs an’ bacon. Your coffee’s all brewed an’ everything.”

The memory slowed then, capturing his naïve hand reaching over to her stocky shoulder, ready to shake her awake - )

“Alfyn?”

Kit’s voice cut through the action-replay whirring at maximum velocity like a car crash in Alfyn’s head, which snapped up in attention on cue. He blinked, then forced a sheepish laugh before scratching the back of his neck.

“Sorry, got kinda lost there for a sec. My heart goes out to ya for your loss. Losin’ a parent,” he gathered the last of the addlewort and secured them in a pouch, “be really hard to go through, ‘specially when you’re young.”

Kit remained silent for a few moments, watching Alfyn sort and put away his ingredients. “Yeah,” he said at last. “It was hard. They tell you it gets easier to handle with time. At least that’s what my therapist told me. But I don’t know. Memories like that just don’t go away. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave home and at least find my father. For some sort of _closure._ That’s what I’m telling myself, at any rate.”

Alfyn leaned back. “Like I said, if ya wanna tag along with us, maybe we’ll find some clues or somethin’. I dunno where we’re going after we reach Noblecourt, but I’m sure Therion does. He’s the one in charge of this expedition of ours.”

“But I thought the truck was yours?”

“It is. I just kinda barged into his business and offered him a lift. He was gonna hop _trains,_ can ya believe that? Trains! All the way to wherever the heck Noblecourt is. But to be real with you, I think I kinda wanted an excuse to leave town, too. See the world. All that stuff. Therion just happened to be there at the right time, is all. An’ I think you can tell I ain’t one to not offer help to those who need it. ‘Course, he was _real_ reluctant ‘bout it, but I can kinda tell he’s appreciative. Sorta.”

Kit’s grin resurfaced. _Good._ Talking about sad things for too long brought the spirits down. “What is he, an actor? Who’s dramatic enough to jump trains these days when you can just take the ferry across the lake? Takes maybe half a day, if that.”

Huh?

“What?”

“The ferry?” Kit blinked. “You know, the one that leaves Saintsbridge down Carrion River? It takes you to the lake, passes a port in the Coastlands, then goes through the canal toward the sea, but hooks north all the way to Atlasdam. A real popular ride, cuts travel down by a _lot._ College students use it a bunch, since Atlasdam is _the_ best university and Saintsbridge makes up a good chunk of their student body. I think. And since Noble--Alfyn? Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I am, I just - shucks, it’s really that easy?”

“You can even take a truck on it,” Kit elaborated, speaking slower. “They have a special vehicle compartment and everything. You… You both did know about that, right?”

“Heck, I sure didn’t!” He laughed, trying to keep his volume down for Therion’s sake. “In my defense, I come from the middle of nowhere. Town’s the size of a pinhead, an’ our Internet access be in our itty-bitty library, which is only open four hours a day, three days a week. I dunno much ‘bout outside of Clearbrook. S’why I probably ain’t heard of anything about that Hornburg place. Wonder if we can go visit it on our way to Noblecourt.”

“Pretty sure the place is still off-limits to us common-folk. The investigation is still ongoing, even eight years later. Any news about it is real hush-hush and need-to-know. But,” his eyes regained their strange sparkling quality, hands clasping together, “do you want to hear _my_ theory? Well, my borrowed theory - I read it on some shady Internet forum somewhere.”

He glanced at the clock. Therion liked to leave town as soon as the rooster crowed, but their room came with a free cooked breakfast around eight in the morning - and Therion perked up when Maryanne mentioned it. Staying awake a little longer wouldn’t hurt. “Sure,” he said, making himself a little more comfortable in his spot, “lay it on me.”

Kit crossed his legs, rocking back and forth. “Okay, so - stop me if I start getting too rambly - but there’s this hypothesis that over a thousand years ago, Orsterra used to be abundant with _magic._ Like, elemental magic - stuff that you read in fantasy books. That sort of gist. But _something_ happened way back when, and all the magic disappeared somewhere. Not only that, but there used to be real-life _monsters,_ too - and they disappeared with the magic.”

“Like the ones under the bed, or more serious shit?”

“Big-time serious. Like, cities built walls to protect themselves from the outside world kind of serious. Ever wonder why older settlements are like that? Anyways, when the _something_ happened, Orsterra was ushered into the age of technology. Society evolved at a steady rate, so on, so forth. And that leads us to eight years ago, almost the turn of the millennia. Hornburg vanishes, like _magic._ See what I’m getting at?”

“That it _was_ magic?”

“Bingo. Magic! The whole place vanished because of magical forces. Of course, we don’t know the source of said-magic, or why, or even how, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. _My_ guess? I say someone was messing with something they shouldn’t have, and they untapped a force dormant for over one thousand years. Said-force either made Hornburg vanish - which is the common idea - but I think that the entirety of Hornburg and its citizens ceased to exist, period.”

“I ain’t really follow. Even if stuff ‘ceases to exist,’ like they died or somethin’, the buildings and the bodies would still be there.”

“Think of it like this.” Kit removed one of his earrings and set it on the table. “This exists. We both see it and acknowledge this is a physical thing with physical properties that either of us can interact with. That’s ‘existence.’ But to make it _not_ exist,” he swiped the earring off the table and hid it, “everything about it - its physicality, its purpose - has to be eradicated. Like, throwing something into a paper shredder, watching it get sliced to bits, but nothing comes out of the other end. From matter to _anti-_ matter.”

A long pause followed as Alfyn’s eyebrows screwed together in a valiant effort to parse together the concepts. “So what you’re sayin’ is… Eight years ago, somethin’ basically evaporated an entire city and its people into… _nothingness._ ”

“Exactly.”

“That’s - sheesh. That’s quite the horror story ya got there, Kit. Hate to imagine it bein’ real at all, ‘cause if it was, then what’s stoppin’ whatever it was from, y’know, doin’ the same shit to the whole country? Or the world, even?”

“Well, there’s a lot of holes in this theory, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Like the mayor’s body found outside the gates. He should’ve become ‘nothing,’ too.” Kit shrugged. “I just love mysteries. And dramas. They’re the most thrilling theatrics, in my opinion. And this one’s probably the biggest one in all of Orsterra. After I find my father, I might turn into a paranormal investigator!”

Alfyn zipped up his repacked bag and set it aside before tucking his supply list in his pocket. “Like findin’ ghosts and stuff? You’ve got more guts than I do, I tell ya what. My buddy back home’s a huge fan of creepy-crawlies too. Dunno how he’s able to watch them scary stuff at night an’ snooze like a log right after.”

“It’s a gift,” Kit said, his grin slipping all but a fraction. “Especially if you’re already used to nightmares.”

***

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, bright and without any trace of the rain clouds from the previous night. It beamed right onto Alfyn’s face, who scrunched it up in mild irritation. From the floor below, a muffled conversation between two familiar voices slipped through the wooden boards. His nose wrinkled at the enticing scent of garlic. Bleary, he cracked open his eyes and squinted at the alarm clock. _7:50 AM._

His brain clunked along to identify the voices belonging to Maryanne and _Therion_ , of all people. He didn’t know a word they were saying, but - he yawned - the conversation sounded oddly… _lively._ As if some demon snatched Therion’s meat suit and began living vicariously through him. 

He scratched at his chest and swapped clothes to look somewhat presentable. His glance shifted over to the bundle named Kit, who’s quiet snoring whistled beneath the pillows. If Alfyn humored a guess, he’d reckon the guy was barely an adult, if that. Still a growing young man who needed ample sleep. 

(“But Ma, I’m _eighteen_ now,” Alfyn whined as she shooed him along to bed. “Why can’t I stay up ‘til eleven like Zeph can?”

“You’ll thank me later, sweetie-pea. You grew all of three sticks in the past eight months! Who knows how much more it’ll be if you ain’t catch your Zs!”)

_You sure were right, Ma._

He left Kit well enough alone - he’d come back up to rouse him for breakfast - and tromped downstairs. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee and the _pip-pip-popping_ of eggs on a skillet greeted him alongside a cheery Maryanne and a disturbingly equally chipper Therion, who offered her diced onions.

“...You flatter me, lad,” she chortled, sprinkling a vegetable mixture over the frying pan before giving Alfyn a quick wave. “G’day there! Fancy some brew? ‘Fraid all I have is almond milk for cream, but have at it. Mug’s in the cupboard.”

Therion’s smile - _smile?!_ \- brightened. Maybe Alfyn somehow got transported to an alternate dimension. Did he hit his head in his sleep? “Flattery’s for fakes, ma’am. You are the real deal to people like us.”

“ _Was_ the real deal, I’m afraid. I’ve stepped down from that position years ago. Pioneering that program during the boom sapped all my energy to keep going.” 

Uh, okay. Alfyn hesitated before meandering over to the cupboard. Appropriately sheep-themed mugs lined the shelves, all equally cartoony and cute. _Nina sure would love this, huh?_ He made a mental note to see if he could buy one before they left to ship it off to her. He poured himself a cup of joe and sniffed it. It smelled nicer than the usual fare - maybe the beans were harvested from Gaborra? Not too acidic, not too dry. 

“Still,” Therion pressed, leaning against the counter with relaxed shoulders, “your language is heralded as still one of the best in the business. Its simplicity _really_ opened doors all over, but it’s still complex enough to do everything you ever wanted.”

Maryanne’s cheeks flushed. “Don’t you get cute with me, lad.” She waved her spatula at him with a _tsk._ “If you want something, say it outright.”

“No, no.” Therion sprinkled sugar into his voice and into his own cup of coffee, eyebrow quirking. “I don’t _want_ anything, but I’m very sorry for making you think so. Although, now that you _mention_ it, I do have just a question for you. If you don’t mind, of course. It’s not every day you happen to meet a legend like yourself.”

“A legend!” She barked with laughter and flipped what looked to be an omelette over. “Listen to you - a _legend._ If only my cohorts paid me enough to be regaled so, I would’ve stuck around longer. Go ahead, shoot.”

He thumbed the rim of his mug. Alfyn watched him take a slow, calculated sip to buy himself time, as if formulating the best way to breech his inquiry. Something serious, then? Whatever it was, it made Therion behave like a _sociable_ person, which contradicted all other facets of the Therion he knew. Maybe he was acting. But if so, he was a first-class actor - kinda like what Kit said last night - because Alfyn couldn’t tell how much was a performance and how much was _real._

Toast slices popped up from the toaster, and Therion snatched both and slathered them in butter. “I was wondering,” he said, walking over to a befuddled Alfyn and setting the toast in front of him, “if you’ve ever heard of the ‘Dragon Stones.’”

“Pfft, what?” Maryanne balked. “If you’re a programmer worth your salt, you ought know better that those don’t really exist. They’re the biggest joke in the industry talked about at the water cooler. Can you take these over to the table too, dear?”

Therion dutifully set down several more dishes steaming with different goodies. Undeterred, he continued: “But you’ve heard of them.”

“Heard of their nonsense, more like. The rumors around them are _astounding._ ”

“Anything in particular? I’ve seen the term thrown around so much but never could get a clear answer from forums,” he explained.

“Standard forums won’t know the half of it. That’s more _darker_ territory, if you know what I’m saying. Even though they are just fairy tales.” She shook her head. “Tell you what. Since you’ve been such a dear, I’ll let you bend my ear after we’ve eaten. For now, go grab your friend upstairs and bring him around.” She smiled, dimples appearing under the warm lighting. “Nobody who stays here misses out on Maryanne’s Breakfast Bash.”

***

Breakfast Bash was right: her cooking floored Alfyn’s stomach, and his taste buds sang her praises to the highest heavens. He never tried mutton before today, but now that he had, he wished he could stick around a few more days just to enjoy some more. But he couldn’t. They had places to be, things to see - even if it felt more confusing by the second about what exactly was going on anymore.

(“Hey.” Therion pulled him aside as they went upstairs to get Kit. “I need to talk to her a bit before we ditch town. Since you’re dragging the kid around now too,” he pushed money into Alfyn’s hands, “make yourself useful and buy us more supplies. I’ll meet you at the truck at noon.”

“So we’re that low on apples, hey? You go through those like a chain smoker and a pack.”

“Can it, quack.” A pause. “Just don’t get green ones. Got it?”)

Cobbleston’s local shops opened early like Clearbrook - which was hardly surprising, given how most residents appeared to be varying types of livestock farmers. Kids walked the adorable sheepdogs, which Kit slowed down to pet every time one passed by. Fluffy pals, sheepdogs were - and friendly, too. Alfyn always wanted a dog, but Ma was allergic to pet dander. 

_Oh,_ he realized, hand lifting off the head of yet another good boy (yes you are, who’s the best boy in the universe? Yip yip, that’s right, it’s you!), _guess nothing’s stoppin’ me now, huh._

“They don’t have olive blooms,” Kit said, a grateful reprieve from the douse of cold water splashing over Alfyn’s reality, “but there _are_ lots of different herbs here! Should we get some? I can’t tell if any of them would be useful.”

The shopkeeper - a retired veteran who dabbled here and there in “non-traditional wares” - wrung his hands together. “There’s an adventurous lad here by the name of Duke who always seems to have plants you’d find higher up on the mountains, but I’m afraid he’s gone off on the hunt again. Apologies for the inconvenience, but this is all I have.”

“Nah, this stock’s plenty useful, sir.” Alfyn grinned in reassurance. “I’ll take this bunch, and these ones here, and these ones too - oh, and a bit of these, if ya ain’t mind…”

The paper bags they carried from shop to shop steadily grew too heavy for poor Kit to handle. Alfyn felt bad for laughing when Kit wheezed out a grievance of, “How strong _are_ you?!” with a huff and a puff. But only a little. They stocked up on groceries (no green apples), a few treats here and there, and - as Kit eyed the _Mystery Theater Magazine Special Edition: The Haunted Theater of Everhold!_ \- a few extra goodies for entertainment. Surely Therion wouldn’t mind. He seemed to be affluent enough.

“That everything, ya think?”

“Golly, I _hope_ so,” Kit complained, rolling his gangly shoulders. “Otherwise I’m gonna get old man back pain by the time I turn twenty.”

“Excuse me.”

A deep, familiar voice injected itself into their banter, cutting it short. Both of them turned to see one hundred men compounded into one man, otherwise known as Olberic. Kit stepped behind Alfyn, a mixture of _Alfyn, who’s that?_ and _He’s not going to pick a fight, is he?_ displayed all over his bewildered eyes.

Olberic approached them, back straight and face betraying nothing, before giving a slight incline of his head in Alfyn’s direction.

“I wanted to express my gratitude,” he said, “for coming to Philip’s aid last evening. He appears to be in better health today, thanks to your efforts.”

“Aw, shucks, I ain’t done much of nothin’. Just a bit of standard first-aid.” Alfyn readjusted the paper bags in his arms. His eyes caught sight of the hefty luggage strapped to the personification of a concrete wall’s back. “You goin’ on vacation?”

“Ah. If by which you mean ‘leisure time,’ I am afraid not, no. There is someone I have to find - and it is absolutely imperative for the answers I am seeking.”

The name _Erhardt_ drifted to the forefront of Alfyn’s thoughts, but he decided against pressing further. “Well,” Alfyn said, glancing the man over and noticing, _hey, are those walking boots?_ “where’re ya headed? Seems like me an’ my pals all be looking for something, too, so if you’d like, we can give you a lift somewhere in my truck. If it be far, then I ain’t sure walkin’ will get ya there in a timely manner.”

“Will he even fit?” Kit whispered.

“Heck if I know,” Alfyn whispered back.

Olberic considered this, stroking his chin and _hm-_ ing at his own ruminations. The _baas_ of herded sheep filled the silence from waiting for a reply. “You are quite the generous man.” Another pause. “I am to go to Victor’s Hollow, deep within the Woodlands. There, in two week’s time, a competition of sorts will take place - and I must partake in it. Otherwise, it will be another moon before another chance arises.”

Woodlands, eh? Alfyn conjured a slipshod map in his head, Therion’s imaginary fingers pointing incessantly at each charted-off district. _Noblecourt’s here,_ said the pale imitation of his pal. _Woodlands are all the way over here. Take a guess how long that’d be. You already undershot how much time it’d take to get to Noblecourt as-is. If we go back the way we came, it might take too long for this guy. What’s with you picking up strays, anyways?_

 _So what if we just finished to loop?_ Alfyn’s inner monologue chimed in. _From Noblecourt to the Frostlands and_ then _to the Woodlands? Depending on where we’re goin’ back to, it’d be quicker, yeah? Olberic can get there in time if we do it that way. Plus, we can avoid that damn desert. Whaddaya say?_

The fake Therion snorted in concession, and the image evaporated from his daydream. “I’m pretty sure we can get ya there,” he said at last, fingertips rapping against his bags. “Or at least get ya closer, for sure, and someone else might be able to lend a hand if we’re takin’ too long. We’re goin’ to Noblecourt and leavin’ ‘round noon, so if that’s up your alley, feel free to tag along, yeah?”

“Very well. I will consider it after I attend to some last matters here.”

A man of few words. Maybe he and Therion would get along. Of course, they might have to duke it out for the front seat first. No way would Olberic fit in the back. At the same time, Therion piled all his belongings around the front and liked to kick his feet up on the dashboard. Well, they could probably rearrange some things. The only downside to having a truck was that it wasn’t built for more than three people at a time, really - unless you let people sprawl out on the truck bed. 

“See ya then! Oh - name’s Alfyn, by the way.” He struggled to hold all the bags in one arm to offer a handshake. “Nice to meet you properly this time. And my buddy here’s Kit.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Olberic said. The sincerity in his voice was almost unsettling in how every uttered word rang true. If this man truly used to be a mayor’s bodyguard, Alfyn could see why he would be hired: not only did he exude unimaginable strength in arms, but in character too. A good guy, through and through. Someone you _really_ wanted on your side in a bar fight.

Then again, how often did that happen?

***

“What.” Therion frowned at their fourth expedition member, lips downturned in a look most foul. He grabbed Alfyn’s arm and pulled him aside, eye darting between Kit and Olberic. “I leave you two alone for all of maybe a handful of hours and you - isn’t that the guy from last night. Why’s _he_ here. We’ve already got bright-eyed-wonder-fool from the desert. This isn’t a gacha game, you can’t just keep collecting _more_ people.”

“He needs a ride,” Alfyn replied simply.

“Gee, didn’t know quacks also operated a taxi service on the side. Will he even _fit?_ ’

As if on cue, Olberic, with a grunt, hefted himself onto the truck bed and pressed his back against the back windshield. He gazed between them before saying, “Is this acceptable? I’m afraid I am too large for the back, and the front appears to be taken.”

A beat passed. Therion threw his hands up in the air, defeated. “ _Fine,_ ” he said, exasperated. “I give up arguing with you. Give me one of those.” He snatched the heavier of the bags out of Alfyn’s arms, immediately appearing to regret it but too stubborn to say anything. His face screwed up in concerted effort to heft the thing all the way to the truck, each step arduous with the weight of the mountains in his arms. 

The bag fell in the back seat with a hearty _whump._ “The hell,” Therion wheezed, “did you _buy?_ ”

“Fifty boulders,” Alfyn said, grinning. “You comfy back there, Olberic? Need anythin’ before we hit the road?”

“I am quite all right. Thank you.”

“Lemme know if that changes, ‘kay? We got a long road ahead of us.”

“Fifty _boulders?_ ” Therion peered into the bag and sputtered. “You - just how many apples did you _get?”_

Kit clamored into the vacant spot in the back row after Alfyn set the remaining bags down. He nudged Therion with his elbow, chuckling.

“Enough in case we encounter the apocalypse off-hand to keep you from gettin’ _too_ grumpy at the inconvenience. Ready?”


	7. gas

“All the way to the Riverland districts,” said the new clerk, passing the box labeled “HANDLE WITH CARE” toward Fyr. “Criminey. Have _you_ ever heard of a ‘Clearbrook’ before today?”

Fyr set the package with its sloppy cursive label in the back of her stocked-full delivery van after scanning the barcode to confirm the address. Yup. Clearbrook. “Can’t say I have,” she replied. “Never gone that far west before. Think it’s from a tourist?”

“Do we even _get_ those?” The clerk - gods, what was his name? - snorted. “We’re so out of the way that we’re lucky we even _get_ mail.”

She double-checked the route, which weaved her and her poor van all the way through the Sunlands and branching off the main highway that led to the ever-popular Saintsbridge to some town buried in the sticks. Being a courier had its perks, what with being employed by the government: free healthcare, paid time off, sick days, salary pay. However, some days - like today - made her question just how much danger she could take. Hailed as heroes, folks like herself were. More like “taken advantage of.”

“You’d think,” the clerk prattled on as he lit a cigarette, “that these days, we’d have _some_ kind of way to deliver stuff more efficiently. I think the government’s holding out on us. I mean, we’re in the technological revolution, aren’t we!” He inhaled slowly, then exhaled the long, disgusting trail of smoke from his chapped lips. “Or at least a better delivery hand-off system. Why’s it _we_ have to be responsible for mail deliveries for the Riverlands, eh? We should just stick with routes in the Highlands!”

“They tried that years ago. Rich folks up top claimed we were trying to unionize and put their foot down.” She slammed the van’s back doors shut and locked it. “Least we’re not Atlasdam. The student and professor mail demands are insane over there.”

“Aye-yae-yae.” The clerk shook his head. “You’re telling me. Apparently some courier had to go all the way from there to the Cliftland counties to pick up one book. _One book!_ Them scholarly types don’t have a clue what they put us through! Go pick it up yourself, why don’t you. That’ll learn ‘em.”

She rounded the van, scribbling on her clipboard for inspections, before handing it back to him. “Don’t forget to tell the manager I’ll be gone for delivery for three days. I’ll shoot e-mails in correspondence when I arrive at Wellspring’s branch.”

“See, that’s what I’m _saying._ Three days on the road! That’s a load of hogwash, I tell you what.” He smeared the cigarette beneath his heel. 

“Anything else being delivered that way? I’ll spare anyone else the trouble.”

“Lemme go check, but I think that’s the only out-of-bounds package we got. All this crap for one measly package.” He disappeared into their small office - an old townhouse reconstructed decades ago for Cobbleston’s postal services. Fyr stretched, gaze shifting toward the roads winding through the mountains. He had the right to complain - heck, she sure did when she enlisted in this career at first. She still did from time to time. However, people _needed_ the mail. They needed that connection. In a weird sense of duty, she was entrusted to get those messages - those feelings - across. Even if less and less letters passed through her hands these days, her own self-importance could never be understated.

She would brave the elements for those who could not.

Her musings almost missed the strange sight in the distance. She blinked once, then twice, before confirming it for certain: a black horse strode by Cobbleston’s welcoming gates, its owner’s dress even darker than its hide. The mountain winds whipped her long, ebony locks behind her. For a moment, Fyr locked eyes with the mysterious woman, feeling her soul shudder at the overwhelming _emptiness_ within. She turned her head away immediately after, hands shaking.

Who the hell was that? She dared take another glimpse, but the horse and rider were both gone - as if they were never there to begin with. 

“Nothing doing, Fyr.” The clerk returned empty-handed. He frowned. “You okay there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I feel like I might’ve.”

“What? Do you need anything? Want to sit down for a minute?”

“No,” Fyr said, locating her van’s keys after swallowing hard. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about it.” She waved. “See you in three, Bernard.”

“It’s _Bernie,”_ he corrected for the tenth time, pouting as she closed the driver’s side door.

***

Cramped.

Therion kicked his feet up on the dashboard while slumping in his seat. Meadow - gods, who named a truck _Meadow,_ he was never going to get over that - growled along the uneven slopes of the mountains, barreling in descent and wheezing in ascent. His head banged off the window once or twice in carelessness from the quack’s lackluster driving skills. Why offer to give rides to folks when your license was more of a pity-gift than an actual testament of one’s ability?

Who knew. But here he sat anyways, glaring at the monochrome peaks where snow still stubbornly lingered in spite of the changing seasons. Kit prattled on and on and _on_ about some such thing or another that Therion couldn’t be bothered to listen to while Alfyn humored the kid with a laugh, an “Oh, huh?” and whatever else Alfyn-isms he could offer. He wished he switched with Olberic. At least the winds never rambled about - what now? 

“No, seriously!” Kit protested. His seatbelt was unbuckled, allowing him to creep closer into the space between Alfyn and Therion. “She found this egg, and she swore up and down it belonged to a dragon. I would’ve laughed too, but I’ve never seen a _rainbow_ egg before, have you?”

Right, some top-tier conversation about absolute asininity. 

“Can’t say I have.” Alfyn squeezed the steering wheel as Meadow lurched around a bend that _really_ should have reinforced fencing or _something._ Therion’s knuckles burned white around the grab handle, holding his breath. 

It was official, ladies and gents: _fuck_ the Highlands.

“Me neither!” Kit continued, undeterred by their fleeting flirtation with Death. “When she showed it to me, I never saw anything so _beautiful_ in my life.”

“She could’ve painted it,” Therion found himself saying, contradicting his _I really, really don’t care about this_ attitude he cranked to its highest capacity however many hours ago. His grip strained as Meadow _whumped_ against a dip that could, if you squinted, be classified as a speed-bump. Who the hell would speed through this Fun Time Romp Featuring Crevices Big Enough To Swallow Whales (and Other Bad News Bears)? He spared a glance out the back window, where Olberic - arms crossed and head tucked - was napping. _Napping!_ Not only was he _built_ like a goddamn fortress, his constitution allowed him to be unphased by the steel trap’s incessant rattling. 

“I don’t think so. It’d be real obvious if she had, being all of maybe ten years old.” Kit held onto the front seats’ shoulders for balance. “It was smooth all the way around, not a single clump anywhere. And if it were watercolor, no way it would’ve been _that_ vibrant.”

“Newsflash, wonderkid: dragons don’t _exist.”_

“That’s what they want you to think!”

“And who’s ‘they,’ exactly?” Therion’s agitation, compounded from hours of nonstop talking and the constant thrill ride, began seeping into his voice. “You think some high-and-mighty government honestly gives a shit about childhood fantasies like that crap she’s selling you?”

“ _I_ think she was genuine.”

“Yeah? Shouldn’t surprise me that some bright-eyed dumbass like yourself would believe that. No wonder you lacked enough common sense to pack enough water to survive the desert. What, did you think something like a dragon would come save you?”

(He’s still falling. He’s still falling. Sai-aint’s bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, myyyy dear lady - still falling, the motion blur of his own eyesight disorienting, and he screams a prayer to whoever’s listening to save him - but no one comes. Myyyy dear tealeaf.)

“No name callin’, Therion,” Alfyn chided, and then shouted some garbled expletive as Meadow’s back tire sank into a jagged hole faster than a body cascading into the depths of a ravine.

A loud _bang_ and the grind of metal against rock launched Kit almost through the windshield and jerked Therion back into the present. His arm jutted across the gap to stop the stupid kid from breaking the damn glass with his bodyweight. Alfyn _slammed_ on the brakes, eyes wide and sweat pouring from every orifice his broad forehead possessed. Meadow spun out, her rear careening in a semi-circle before shuddering off to a lone grass patch in a sea of stone. Her engine sputtered to silence when Alfyn yanked out the keys and cranked the emergency brake.

“The hell,” Therion breathed, “was _that._ ”

“My superb drivin’ skills savin’ our hides?” Alfyn managed, strained. “Everyone okay? Oh, shit, Olberic -”

He scrambled out of the front seat and slammed the door shut. Therion took a moment to inhale slowly and reflect on his life choices. He could have said no. He had every opportunity to take a dependable, if not much more arduous and painstakingly slow, train all the way to Noblecourt. Nope. Instead, he decided to bank on a borderline alcoholic who claimed to have wisdom of Ye Olde Medicines and couldn’t stop picking up every other person with a sob story. 

Fantastic. Good choice, Therion. He literally could not roll his eye any harder. Granted, he did pick up necessary information regarding the DRGN-ST0Ns, so it wasn’t a total wash. Maybe. 

“Good news!” Alfyn’s head popped back in through the rolled-down window. “Olberic’s a-okay. Bad news!” He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Tire’s flatter than three-day-old seltzer water left to sit in the sun.”

“Did you hit something?” Kit turned to look out the back window.

“That pothole that I thought she coulda survived, but I guess the toll from drivin’ on these roads kinda took a bite outta her chances.” 

Great. Grand. Wonderful. Therion took a bow on the imaginary stage of his own heckled joke of a life. Thank you, thank you. He’d be here next week if he didn’t die from banging his own head off a wall. “Do you have a spare,” he ventured flatly, anticipating the unfortunate answer: _What’s a spare? You mean a spare truck? Ain’t you a joker, Ther--_

“Sure do,” was the surprise of the day, followed by the disappointing, “but I ain’t gotta single clue how to put it on.”

One out of two wasn’t so bad. Maybe Therion could spare himself the impending headache after all. He unlatched his seatbelt and hopped out of the truck. The overcast skies returned, patches of blue poking through to stave off the rain. Olberic gave a short incline of his head to Therion as he wandered around the truck, frowning at the tire that couldn’t be bothered to give a two week’s notice before quitting the job.

“Damn,” he muttered. Alfyn was right: the thing was flat. He glanced at Olberic. “You see a toolbox in the bed anywhere?”

“A red one,” Olberic answered, and, before Therion could even ask with feigned politeness, procured it from the back. It jingled with the prospect of tools by his side, and Therion swiped it greedily as though he were about to rummage through a fine lady’s jewelry box. The spare tire settled beside him - properly inflated. At least one thing was going for them.

“Make yourself useful, quack, and get me four big stones from around here somewhere.” He crouched down in front of the tire - oh, good, the lugnuts were already exposed - and rolled up his ratted sleeves. Gods, when was the last time he did something like this? Wait. He prevented his memories from wandering. No need for that. Focus on the now, Therion. 

Alfyn returned from his wanderings with the hefty-enough rocks. “Shucks, Therion, _you_ know how to do this? You’re just full of surprises, ain’t ya.”

“Jack of all trades, master of some,” Therion drawled. He wedged the rocks along the front tires before returning to the misfit. “Seriously. You’re the one with the truck, how do you _not_ know how to do this.”

“Ma always used to take care of it.”

“You’re such a mama’s boy.” He crouched down and began loosening each lug nut with a wrench, grunting with the effort. The rust sure didn’t make it any easier. 

“Sure am.”

“That’s _not_ something to be proud of. How old are you again?” It was a low blow, and Therion knew it. It didn’t take a genius to understand Alfyn’s mother died sometime ago, yet he kept needling to see if he could get _any_ kind of pissed reaction out of him. Why, Therion couldn’t say; maybe he needed to test certain buttons to locate the emergency ejection one in case things got dicey.

 _In case you get too close and feel yourself getting attached, you mean,_ said an irritating whisper cackling from his thoughts’ darker corners, but he elected to ignore it.

Of course, good ol’ reliable Alfyn only grinned. “Old enough to know ya ain’t gotta be ashamed to love your folks. Wanna show me how it’s done in case this happens again?”

“I wanna learn, too!” Kit bounded beside Therion with unwarranted enthusiasm. 

“Do you even _have_ a license?”

“No, but, who’s to say when I will?”

 _Ugh._ The peanut gallery huddled around him. Olberic kept a respectable distance, although he too stared at Therion while he worked the last stubborn lug nut. He hated having an audience. His fingers fumbled the wrench once, twice, before giving a final twist to loosen it enough.

“Jack,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Wha? Ain’t no one here named that.”

“No, _jack,_ ” he repeated, frowning. “The - the stupid thing that lifts the truck. I can’t take the tire off without a jack. There isn’t one in the box, but you must have one somewhere. Right?”

Of course, this was Alfyn the Undependable In All Things Outside Quack Nonsense he was talking to. The moron all but shrugged. “I dunno. Lemme check the back seat.”

Gods. Therion ran a hand through his hair, frustrations mounting as he kept adding more to the “shit to buy for the dumbass” list. Good thing he pocketed a _lot_ of dough from the drunken scumweasels in Sunshade, but he knew he’d need more at this rate.

“Whoa,” Kit said, pointing. “What happened to your eye?”

Oh. Fuck. Therion released the pulled-up bangs to fall back into his face. “What happened to your manners,” he bit back. 

“Uh - sorry. It just - never mind.” Kit gave a nervous laugh and tugged at the collar of his shirt, embarrassed. His gaze flew to anywhere else. “Uh, that’s a cool tattoo on your wrist! Does it have any meaning?”

Plenty. The spot still itched from that damn butler’s handiwork, and the chip underneath it - seamlessly inserted while Therion slept under a drug’s influence - almost dug at his bone as a pitiable reminder of his shortcomings.

(“Consider it as insurance that you will fulfill our request,” said the butler.)

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He tugged down his bracelet to hide the dumb thing again. Then, after another moment, just to mess with the kid: “It’s to let the dragons know I’m too poisonous to eat.”

Kit pouted, sufficiently distracted. “I’m serious! Dragons _are_ real.”

“Yeah, and I’m Aeber’s direct descendant.” He rolled his eye.

“More bad news,” Alfyn slid out from the back seat, “I ain’t have one of them jacks.”

The gods sure loved to piss on his parade, eh? He groaned. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Can’t ya use somethin’ else?”

Before he could spit out a, _Do I look like a fucking wizard?_ Olberic held up a hand. “If it is to lift up the vehicle, I can most certainly aid you.”

What.

“What.” Therion stared as Olberic squatted by the flat, hands resting beneath the truck’s frame. “You can’t be serious. This thing weighs more than -”

With a tremendous shudder, Olberic’s muscles barely strained as the truck’s rear lifted in a miraculous ease that made Therion wonder if this guy was even human at all. His mouth opened, then closed as he worked fastidiously to remove the lug nuts. Work now, question reality later. 

He pulled the flat tire by its treads - or what used to be treads but now were as bare as Therion’s chances at ever getting to his destination - and set it down. “Spare,” he said, and Kit - with a huff - handed it to him. He slid it onto the lug bolts, then spun each lug nut back on as quick and tight as possible to spare Olberic the effort of _hefting a truck with sheer strength and effort._

“Lower it a little - not all the way.” Olberic nodded once and dug his boots into the ground, ensuring a teetering balance of supporting the truck and letting the tire adjust properly to its weight. Therion nabbed the lug wrench and finished tightening the lug nuts with his whole bodyweight, cheeks puffing and turning red from effort. “Okay,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, “let her go.”

Olberic withdrew his hands. The spare sat comfortably against the grass. He tested each nut again, just to make sure, then sighed. He doubted they had a PSI checker, so he just had to hope and pray the pressure was correct for them to at least get to the next town over.

“When we get to the Coastlands?” He pushed the lug wrench into a stunned Alfyn’s chest. “Buy a damn jack next time.”

Kit applauded. “You made it look so easy!”

“Because it _is_ easy. It won’t last forever, so we’re going to need to buy a new tire,” _new tires,_ his brain amended, because apparently Alfyn didn’t understand treads were a thing that needed minding, “once we get to - I think Rippletide’s closest.”

Olberic helped in removing the stones wedged around the front tires, tossed back along the side of the road. Therion’s great hesitation around having a _third_ person hitching a ride with Alfyn eased in knowing the man was a.) quiet, and b.) usefully strong. Unlike Kit, who was _neither_ of those things.

“Want to switch?”

Olberic blinked. Therion frowned, and jabbed a thumb at the sky.

“It’s gonna rain,” he elaborated. “You’re tall, but the front’s got enough leg room if I move my stuff out of the way. Not ideal, but hey.”

A moment passed. “And what of yourself?” asked Olberic.

“I’ll take the truck bed. I need a shower anyways from the impromptu work-out.” 

“I ain’t think so, buster brown.” Alfyn locked an arm around Therion’s neck, dragging him away from the trunk. “You an’ Kit can share the back, you’re small enough. Here, I’ll help ya move your stuff. We should’ve done this sooner.”

“I honestly do not mind. The mountain air is pleasant,” Olberic reassured, but Alfyn already squeaked open the passenger door - _grease oil,_ Therion added to his list - and began rearranging belongings. With a tired sigh, Therion leaned against him and snatched some of the bags to put in the backseat.

Alfyn stiffened against him for a second, lips parting.

“Something wrong, quack?”

“Uh,” replied Alfyn, in the crystal-clear clarity he was known for. He squawked out a chuckle. “No, nothin’ wrong here, buddy.”

“Hm.” A quick glance revealed a combination of stressed tiredness from the hell that was driving through the Highlands and some weird flush spreading through his cheeks. They’d get to Rippletide late - another four hours, give or take (please let the spare last that long) - and Therion had his doubts Alfyn would make it. Then, before he could stop himself: “Gimme the keys.”

“Huh?”

Yeah, “huh” was right. Still, Therion’s deft hands slipped into one of Alfyn’s bulging jacket pockets and spun the keyring around his forefinger. “My turn,” he said, and left it at that as he approached the driver’s side. Wow, what was with the weird keychains? An ugly fish with googly eyes missing a fin and what looked to be a locket. No doubt it was Alfyn’s mother’s picture in there. He didn’t bother to check. 

He readjusted the driver’s seat to accommodate his stouter legs. Olberic sat in shotgun, hands folded neatly in his lap. Alfyn, after a moment’s deliberation, held up his hands in defeat and wandered to the back to join Kit.

“Can you read the map,” Therion asked, handing it to Olberic. 

“Of course.”

“Great.” With a little jingle of the keys, Meadow grumbled from her nap and flashed her high beams at the foreboding cobblestone paved all the way to the distant oceans. Therion sucked in a sharp breath, thumb rubbing over the gear shift as he mentally prepared himself for the absolute fuckery that’d be navigating these streets. Hopefully his depth perception wasn’t too damaged by missing one half of his vision.

“Wait a sec.” Alfyn piped up, peering into the rearview mirror. “You - you gotta license too, right?”

Therion raised an eyebrow, a smirk quirking on his lips as he met Alfyn’s concerned stare. 

“You tell me,” he replied in an almost sing-song voice, and Meadow’s tires spun against the stones all the way to sea.

***

Alfyn dreamed in bursts.

First, he and Zeph were huddled close together at Zeph’s house during a sleepover. He fiddled with seven cards in his hand, none of which were legible. A flashlight stood on its end, faintly illuminating the room they should have been sleeping in. Outside, crickets chirped their sweet serenades to a dying summer. Zeph’s mischievous grin stretched, setting down two pairs of cards before narrowing his eyes.

“Got any eights?”

“Nah,” Alfyn whispered, “go fish.”

Zeph reached for the deck, and Alfyn witnessed his younger self steel his nerves before reaching for his hand. Zeph stilled, his warm eyes looking straight into Alfyn’s, whose jitters swelled to an all-time high. A beat passed, then another - “Alf?” - and Alfyn leaned forward, hoping the taste of raspberry popsicle wouldn’t be too gross - 

The dream shifted. His lungs burned. His face felt ready to melt off. The taste of something bitter gurgled down his throat in an excruciatingly slow trek to his gullet. An unfamiliar man’s words reverberated in his hazy consciousness, none of them intelligible -

 _“Alfyn._ ”

Therion. The terseness in his voice thinly veiled the gnawing worry laced in his utterance. The world twisted when his eyes opened, Alfyn choked, and - _“Alfyn!”_ \- Therion pawed at his satchel, his mangled hands slick with red pulling out different broken bottles. Someone - or some _thing_ \- shrieked bloody murder. The air crackled with electricity, the hair on his arms and chest standing straight up as he tried to remember how to breathe. His fingertips brushed against the cold wood of something a mere few sticks away. He could still - he could still do something, even like this, even with his intestines threatening to spill all over the ground and at Therion’s feet - 

_“Don’t you dare,”_ Therion hissed, trying to concoct a miracle brew from all the wrong ingredients, _“don’t you_ dare! _Take responsibility for what you’ve done, you can’t - you_ can’t -”

Salt. The air tasted like salt, and Alfyn’s head lolled to the side and right against Meadow’s teeny-tiny back seat window.

Oh.

Huh.

He blinked, yawned, and craned his neck. The sun long since set at some point Alfyn missed. He washed away the unpleasant bile in his mouth with a quick sip of water.

“Heya.” Kit smiled. “Did you sleep well?”

“I’d say so.” Kinda. Weird dreams, though. “Can’t believe how _tired_ I was.” He stretched awkwardly in the space allowed. The radio was turned on but with the volume lowered, faint piano keys striking against the tinny speakers. “We close to town?”

“In about ten minutes,” Therion answered. His voice sounded drained, but proud. “You missed it, by the way. I got us through the Highlands _without_ popping a tire.”

“He did almost drive us off a cliff,” Olberic stated matter-of-factly.

“ _Hey._ ” 

Kit snickered. “You should’ve seen the look on his face! I’ve never seen someone maneuver a steering wheel so hard and so fast in my life.” 

Therion slowed the truck to a stop. “Both of you traitors,” he deadpanned, “out of my truck. You can walk the rest of the way.”

“Oh?” Alfyn grinned. “Hold a hare there, Therion. Didn’t you just say the other day that your name ain’t on the insurance an’ that it’s _my_ truck? S’why you ain’t care ‘bout her name, right? So I hold the rights to evictin’ my guests, not you. Yeah?”

A beat passed. Therion’s agitated fingers rapped against the steering wheel, fuming at Alfyn’s sound logic. The truck ambled forward without another word after Therion turned up the radio to drown out the following shared laughter amidst the three of them.

It almost felt all too familiar. 


	8. turn signal

Moss existed.

Minerva heard of it before - regaled in fantasy stories flourishing with flora, often depicting ancient stones bearing silent wisdom and the green blankets of moss. Deserts had no such things. But here, where the air swam heavily with foreign scents, nothing but forest carpeted the landscape. Her wrinkled palm pressed against a tree, felt the bark _squish_ beneath her fingertips, and did a double-take to see what she touched. Lo and behold, moss! Tangible, tickly, soft. Like a giddy child, she mushed her hand a few more times against the patch. 

“Grandmother?” Primrose glanced over her shoulder. “Everything alright?”

“Apologies, dear.” She retracted her hand and hobbled over stumps and roots. “So, this is the Woodlands, hm?”

The question was rhetorical. They left the vehicle pilfered from _dear_ deceased Helgenish’s estate at the town gates, of which only a hiking trail meandered toward its hidden village where no cars were allowed. Minerva adjusted her old shawl and inhaled slow, deep. Tales whispered about how forests possessed a certain magic to them. Now she understood; here, her weary bones ached less surrounded by the swaying titans called “trees.”

The same could not be said for poor Primrose. She kept her tension squarely on her bare shoulders, hands balled into fists with each sway of her arms. The path she walked, Minerva determined, was not an enviable or pleasant one. Even when the dear jammed her poor exposed toes against tricky roots, she never cried out, and her lips never faltered from the perpetual tight line weighing darkly on her face.

No grapes imbued with the gods’ blessings could heal that, Minerva feared.

After trekking for a timeless while, the path at last broke into a clearing surrounded by fencing. Minerva squinted; old houses encircled the town’s centerpiece, a majestic tree sporting pinkish-purple blossoms. Sunlight filtered through its marvelous branches, giving it a radiant aura. She stopped and tilted her head upward at the tree, breathless. Thank the gods her eyesight still allowed her to see this much. Compared to the barren wasteland that comprised the Cliftlands, this was a beauty to behold.

“Oh,” Primrose said, approaching one of the larger buildings in the square, “here it is. They should have the gear we’re looking for.”

The store, even with Minerva’s dulled sense of smell, reeked of must. Racks upon racks of fur-laden clothing hung in attention at their arrival. 

“Hail!” The store clerk, a strapping young man with a beard demanding to be marveled, gave them a two-fingered salute. Primrose played her sweet summer smile as she sauntered toward him. “Welcome, ma’ams,” he managed without stuttering at the beauty before him, “anything I can help ye with t’day?”

“We need _proper_ clothing to embark to the Frostlands,” she said, leaning against the countertop. Minerva watched her tuck a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “It’s our first time going there. Have any recommendations?”

The sales clerk - who’s mum raised him right, what with all his avoidance of sneaking glances at what Primrose offered him to be privy to - cleared his throat. “Hmm,” he stroked his beard, “well, depends on how far north ye be headin’. If you’re just going to Flamesgrace, right now’s actually almost as warm as down here, but any further and yer gonna get the chance to meet Mr. Frost.”

“I have… family,” Primrose elaborated, “in Stillsnow.”

“Aye, Stillsnow, is it? In that case…”

For a better part of an hour, they tried on a multitude of outfits. Primrose settled on a sleek down-lined coat that complimented her shape, accompanied by fingerless gloves and heeled boots. Oh, to be young. Minerva selected the warmest (and possibly blandest) coat of them all, one that transformed her into a marshmallow. Somehow, Primrose managed to swindle a cheaper deal for their bundle - “Oh, you are _far_ too kind, sir!” “Ma’am, ye be rest assured, _I’m_ the one blessed today.” - while Minerva’s gaze shifted out the storefront’s window.

There, by the beautiful tree, sat an overgrown house cat. 

She never saw a house cat get so _large._ She squinted and ambled closer to the door to get a better glimpse. The kitty - white fur sporting speckled spots - stretched its big body in the sun patch, tail flicking to and fro. She resisted every temptation to leave ahead of Primrose to go rub its immaculate tummy. Gods, to think cats could grow so formidable! Everything in the Woodlands proved some inkling of _magical_ to her thus far.

“Grandmother,” Primrose called, tittering, “are you just going to stare, or are you going to come with me to say hello?”

Her face flushed. How long had she zoned out for? She hobbled alongside Primrose back outside. The cat’s ears flicked, its head lifting at their approach. Striking blue eyes narrowed a little in its assessment - then, with a little flop onto its back, permitted Minerva to touch the sacred belly. 

“Oh, you’re such a big girl, aren’t you!” She fluffed up the fuzziest spots. “Dear, you just _have_ to pet her, she is the softest creature I’ve ever seen. Do you have an owner? Are you hungry at all?”

Primrose, after some maneuvering of her bags, squatted down and ran her fingers along the cat’s head. “She seems well-fed,” she commented, “and well-cared for. I believe she probably does have someone looking after her. A pet, maybe?”

“Nay,” came a voice as smoky as a campfire, “Linde is not a pet - she is mine own comrade. One who hath judgeth thee worthy to petten her.”

Minerva’s gaze shifted to a woman whose very stature commanded experience, her arms akin to a warrior’s. Her tangled braid rustled in the breeze as she strode toward them, face placid as a calm lake. Strapped to her back was a quiver of arrows. Minerva moved to retract her hand. _A huntress?_

“Thou art well,” said the woman. Up close, Minerva spotted several bandages here and there poking out from underneath her sleeves. A hunt gone wrong? “Thee may stroken her.”

Her language sounded older than the woods they stood in. Minerva struggled to haphazardly translate on the fly. She remembered some texts explaining that given Orsterra’s wide berth, it possessed many dialects that deviated greatly from the common tongue. Compared to the casual speech in Sunshade and the hick-like babble of Saintsbridge, this woman’s words were the most intriguing of them all. 

What a world.

“Her name is Linde?” inquired Primrose.

“Aye.” And then, after a moment: “Thou art not frome here.”

“We arrived from the Sunlands, she and I.” Primrose rose - she only came up to the woman’s shoulder. She extended a hand. “This is Minerva, and I am Primrose. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…”

“H’aanit.” The handshake they shared appeared strong, but well-meaning. “S’warkii is mine own home,” she continued, releasing Primrose from her grip, “I desiren ‘tis treating thee well.”

“So far it is. Though we unfortunately can’t stay long.” 

Minerva gave Linde one last ruffle before standing upright, bones popping in several places. She took the lighter of the two bags from Primrose and slung it over her shoulder. H’aanit raised an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“Travellers?” 

“You could say that.”

“I, too, hath beene travelling - ‘tis mine own first timeth I hath returnede in a moon.” H’aanit turned her head toward the houses surrounding the square. Then she smiled - softly, muted. “Art thine stomachs hungry? Before thee leaven, please,” she gestured toward a street, “allowen me to showe S’warkii fare.”

“I’ve never tried it before,” Minerva said, looking to Primrose. “And you haven’t eaten a seed since last night, my dear. Perhaps we could take the young lady up on her offer for a small lunch?”

Primrose weighed her options visibly in her eyes. The fires that raged within, that urged her toward fulfilling a dark conquest laden with tragedy Minerva could hardly fathom, simmered slightly in reluctance. A punctual gurgle of her stomach filled the silence. Her eyes widened, face turning several new shades of red, and H’aanit only smiled, awaiting the inevitable “yes.”

“I think that might be a good idea,” Primrose rushed to answer, lowering her head in mild embarrassment. “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Pleasuren is all mine,” H’aanit reassured, and Linde trilled like Minerva’s inner joy at the prospect of a warm meal.

***

The mechanic slapped the estimated total bill onto the countertop.

“Including fixing your borderline-shot transmission, replacing all your bald tires, an axel realignment, and the much-needed oil change, you’re looking around this for a ballpark,” she said with a yawn. She wiped some oil stain off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Reckon we’ll have her squeaky-clean in a day and a half. We won’t have the total chalked up ‘til after we finish fixin’ her, so we only take partial payment up-front. Leaves or credit card?”

Therion and Alfyn peered at the bill. 

“Hm,” said Therion.

“Huh,” said Alfyn.

“Give us a second,” Therion said, swiping the paper and pulling Alfyn aside. The mechanic shrugged and returned to picking at a fussy crooked button on her sweater. Out of earshot, he whispered, “I _told_ you Meadow’s a goddamn death trap.”

“Zero deaths!” Alfyn deflected, voice several pitches higher than normal. He took the bill out of Therion’s hands and rubbed the back of his neck. Gods, that was a _lot_ of zeros. This was what them fishing folk called a whopper and a half, one that threatened to snap your rod and your back. “Shucks,” he muttered, frowning, “I ain’t most _definitely_ able to afford this none.”

Therion squinted. “Does that mean you can or can’t pay i - you know what, never mind. I know you can’t because _I_ can’t.” 

“What the heck’re we gonna do? S’not like I have an extra truck floatin’ around or nothin’.”

“I’m _thinking,_ quack. They only need partial payment upfront,” he rummaged through his bag, pulling out a wad of leaves, “so we’ll take care of that now and figure out the _rest_ later.”

“Sure sounds like a risky idea.”

“Got any better ones?” Before Alfyn could even think of a response, Therion returned to the counter and slid the bill with the leaves to make their down-payment. The mechanic handed him the itemized remainder of the bill and bade them a good day and that she’d see them tomorrow. Crap. Where the heck could they scrounge up the difference between now and tomorrow? And what were they going to tell Olberic who had a deadline to get to Victor’s Hollow?

“You keep frowning like that and you’re going to get wrinkles before thirty,” Therion mused, pocketing the bill. 

“Ain’t that a bit of a ‘pot, kettle, black’ comment there, Therion? You’re _always_ frownin’.”

“Hair’s already white, so I already look older than I am. A few wrinkles wouldn’t hurt my case. Don’t have to look good to do my job, but I’m pretty sure quacks like yourself have to appear _somewhat_ friendly and attractive-ish to be effective at soothing patients better or… whatever.” He cracked his knuckles and flexed his fingers, as if preparing them to get to work. “What’re you staring at.”

“Uh,” Alfyn replied, finding himself on-the-spot. Well. He gave a sheepish laugh. Since yesterday, when Therion accidentally bumped into him to grab something from the truck, his stomach fluttered around Therion in certain instances similar to _back then._

(“Alf? You okay there?” Zeph’s face was so close, yet so far away.

“Um,” Alfyn eeked out, scrambling to push himself away, “sorry - sorry. I ain’t sure what came over me. Got any sevens?”)

Like two months ago. Like almost a few days ago, when Zeph laughed and clasped Alfyn’s shoulder, clinking two wine glasses together during the wedding ceremony. Albeit his heart strings tugged fainter and more resigned at the fact that his feelings would go unreciprocated. He attempted to date a few cute lasses in his teens to move on. When that didn’t work (bless their souls, they didn’t spite him for it), he settled for being the pining fool his mother often _tsk’_ d him for.

(“Alf, Alf.” She waved a stirring spoon in front of his face. “There be plenty of other fish in the river. You’re not gonna get _nowhere_ with you holdin’ out for a fisherman’s legend when there’s just the perfect match for you out there _somewhere._ Ya just gotta let him go. Cast out new bait.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, not listening. Not really. Maybe a little, but part of him dreamed - part of him _hoped_ \- part of him wanted, maybe, a happy ending, one where he could go to the pubs and brag about his childhood-turned-boyfriend partner, yuck it up like the rest of the lovey-dovey dopes who held hands and whispered confessions that only the reeds and the spring peepers bore witness to -)

But with Zeph’s wedding, the nail that scraped at the sensitive flesh of Alfyn’s heart began to ease off in acceptance. It hurt less to think about. He could think about Zeph the Best Friend, not Zeph the Crush. And the reason, he started to realize, was probably because - because - he swallowed hard and batted the thought aside. _You just met the guy all of a week ago or so there, buddy,_ he told himself. _Don’t mistake companionship for somethin’ that’s probably just some kinda rebound feelings_ , _yeah?_

“Hey.” Therion snapped his fingers in front of Alfyn’s face. “Did the seagulls abduct your brain when I wasn’t paying attention or what?”

“Do ya really think of yourself as unattractive?” he got out at last. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. M’sure the ladies can’t keep away. You got that,” he gestured unhelpfully, “y’know, ‘bad boy’ mystique ‘round ya.”

“Bad boy mystique,” Therion repeated flatly. He sighed. “I don’t give it any thought one way or another. I have jobs to do, not people to woo.”

Alfyn whistled. “You come up with that rhyme on the fly? That was pretty good.”

He almost missed Therion’s smug little smirk that got swallowed up by his pulled-up scarf. “I’m going to go make some dough,” he said, brushing by Alfyn. “I don’t care what you do in the meantime, but just don’t go around picking up more strays. We’ve already got more than enough chatterboxes around.”

He grinned. “I ain’t makin’ any promises.”

“Figures.”

At that, Therion hooked a right down the street and vanished into the crowded marketplace lining the docks of Rippletide. Alfyn found himself standing outside the mechanic’s place alone and with ample amounts of free time on his hands. The other two, Kit and Olberic (mostly by Kit’s insistence _someone_ go with him), were probably down on the beach enjoying the surf. While Alfyn enjoyed a nice swim like the rest of them, the sea proved a bit too briny for his own tastes.

He laced his fingers together behind his head and watched the gulls overhead drift on the ocean breeze. When he was a kid, he always wished he had wings to fly all over the world. He supposed in a roundabout way, he finally would fulfill that dream, kind of sort of. Not the world, no, but Orsterra felt huge enough to be one. 

“Ack!” 

A _whoosh_ of browns and yellows slammed into his side, causing them both to take a tumble in a tangle onto the brick sidewalk. His head _thunked_ against it, vision swimming with misplaced stars, and the accidental assailant face-planted right into his chest, hat crumpled between them. He let out a groan - _that’s gonna smart tomorrow_ \- before peering down at the newest friend of the hour.

A young girl pushed herself up, arms doing their best impression of a three-legged mule dance in her flailing apologies. “By the tides, I’m _so_ sorry, oh my _gosh,_ are you okay? I totally just wasn’t paying attention there! Here, let me compensate you for the damages -”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there.” Alfyn laughed and held up his hands. Something about her speed-talking reminded him of Nina. “S’all good, was my fault for spacin’ out like that. Are _you_ okay?”

“You think some bump-and-run accident’s gonna slow down the world’s best social media influencer the world hasn’t quite seen yet?” She rose to her feet and jutted an arm down in his direction. “Pssh! Nothing can slow me down!”

That’s a bunch of words cascading like a waterfall right over Alfyn’s head. He took her hand and steadied himself. Wow, she was short - no wonder she wore a hat to give the illusion of a few extra twigs for height. “Glad to hear it?” he replied, sheepish. He glanced at the crowd. “Didja get separated from yer folks? I can help ya find ‘em if you want as an apology for bein’ in your way.”

“My folks?” Her eyes widened like runny eggs on a skillet. Man, was he hungry. “What, you think I’m _lost?_ I lived here for my whole _eighteen years,_ pal! I’m no child who needs to have her hand held or anything like that. Sheesh!”

Oh. “Oh,” he said, “uh, sorry. I just - you looked - my bad.”

“Geez!” She threw her hands up in the air. “The only one who looks lost here is _you_ , not me! Never seen your face around these parts - you come off the cruiser docked there or what? Wait,” she whipped her head in the other direction, eyes darting from person to person in the crowd, “agh! I can’t let you distract me, I’ve got _problems_ I need to fix.”

Upon uttering the magic word, Alfyn perked up. “Problems?”

“Big ones! Massive ones. Bigger ones than the skeevy fish they try to upsell on the market.” She nodded to herself, as if the analogy made universal sense, before clicking her tongue. Then, she eyed Alfyn, sizing him up. “Actually,” she said, clasping her hands together, “if you _really_ want to make it up to me for getting in my way, I have a teensy-weensy favor to ask you. Plus, there’s a bit of a sweet deal in it for you.”

Deals? Deals usually involved money, right? While Alfyn’s modus operandi never revolved around leaves, and Therion was doing _something_ to make some, he figured he needed to pitch in _somehow_ , too. Meadow wasn’t going to fix herself. “Sure,” he said, “whatcha need?”

“We’ve got to walk and talk - can’t dilly-dally around here all day. Time is money.” She grabbed his wrist and ushered and weaved him through the bodies surrounding stalls of fantastic-smelling food. Maybe after this, he should eat something. “Like I said, I’m an influencer _master,_ ” she shouted over the buzz of the crowds, and Alfyn still strained to catch it all. “Building brands for local products is what I specialize in - it’s what helps make little towns like mine here attract folks from all over to see what makes us _special._ ”

He whistled. Seeing how many people swarmed the itty-bitty town of Rippletide, he’d call whatever it was she did a success on all fronts. 

“Anyways,” she released him once they reached the outskirts of the market, a sandy path winding along a beach toward a distant, hollowed-out stone edifice in the distance, “it’s important I keep things running smoothly and to make things fair-and-square. You know who _doesn’t_ play fair? I’ll give you a guess or two.”

“Uhh.” His brow furrowed in thought. “Those who break the rules, yeah?”

“That’s - I mean, you’re not _wrong,_ ” she said, tilting her head, “but that’s not really as specific as I was - well, okay. Scalpers! I’m talking about _scalpers._ ”

What? His imagination ran wild with the word, picturing people wielding scalpels and nabbing folks to peel their skin off. He shuddered. “That’s some kinda _awful,_ ” he said, picking up his pace to catch up with her. “Why ain’t the police involved?”

“Hah!” She turned on her heel and walked backwards for several strides, somehow avoiding rocks sticking up out of the sands. “The Internet’s the wilderness right now - there’s no real law enforcement in digital cyberspace. That’s how they can get away with scamming decent folks and sell our local specialty goods for exuberant prices! And now, this particular group has made it _personal,_ practically stealing from my poor Ma and Pa like they don’t think I’m gonna make them eat sand!”

His mind’s gears cranked along to play catch-up, rewriting the definition of “scalper” from “murderous psychopaths” to “people who rob and sell stuff on the Internet, apparently.” He didn’t quite understand all the details, but it still sounded like a big deal from her passionate distaste for them. “Wait,” he said, “you’re goin’ to take on a buncha folks and kick their ass?”

“Darn skippy I am! And you’re gonna help.” She trudged over some seaweed. “Don’t slip there, you’ll cut yourself on dead barnacles. Stuff hurts.”

“In a _dress?_ ” he asked, first of many issues he had with these revealed developments.

“What else am I gonna wear, _jeans?_ ” She puffed her cheeks and offered him a hand as he struggled to balance on the seaweed-coated rocks. “That stuff _itches_ after like, two hours or so. Besides, a full range of movement’s real helpful for stomping a jerk’s teeth in!”

“I’m startin’ to think maybe you _really_ should leave it to the police,” he said.

“Like the police do _anything_ right. Just the other day?” She shook her head. “They accidentally drove a cruiser right into the ocean! Can you believe that? So incompetent! I might as well do it myself, because at least I’ll know it’ll be done _right._ And without the hassle of paperwork! And waiting for eight weeks!”

Oh boy. Well, at least she seemed confident in her capabilities, but her vigilante justice for the sake of money was a little _out there,_ to say the least. “Alright,” he said, a little uncertain, “but if things get goin’ rough, we’re gonna need to plan on bailin’ to regroup.”

Gods, he could hear Therion now. _What the hell do you think you’re doing. Are you insane. This not-little girl and her thirst for money-justice is going to land you in hot water. You don’t even know what you’re up against, and you_ still _think this is a good idea?_

Well in his defense, Your Honor, he never said he thought it was a good idea in the first place. A bit on the exciting side, though - that much was true. He’d never do something like this back in Clearbrook. If he had, his Ma would’ve bapped him upside the head and grounded him for a month. No TV or Minesweeper, either.

“Who are you, my dad?” She hopped across slick rocks toward the entrance of the cave and crouched behind a large one to hide. Alfyn followed suit. “I can handle these guys, easy-peasy. Maybe.” 

Oh double boy. He lowered his voice. “Do ya got a plan?”

“Plan? Yeah, it’s real easy to follow.” She nodded once, twice, three times. “Go in there, step one. Find the head honchos, step two. Proceed with butt-kicking, step three. And finally!” She waggled her forefinger, eyes glittering. “Get all the goodies and bad money they’ve hoarded back to those who deserve it, step four! Perfect, right?”

If “perfect” was synonymous to “gods give us strength,” sure. He had a bad feeling about this. “What if there be more than just the head honchos? What if they got minions?”

“Oh, you of little faith! See, see.” She snickered. “These dumb loaves of molded bread are thirstier than a dehydrated clam. Of _course_ they’d steal our best wine, which _I,_ ” she pounded her chest with pride, “preemptively laced with good ol’ _sleepweed._ What do you think of that, eh? Eh? Brilliant and a half, right here, or my name isn’t Tressa! Oh, _right._ Uh, name’s Tressa, by the way. Nice to meet you!”

“Alfyn,” he replied in kind, peering into the depths of the cave. “Same to ya as well. Why’re we here, anyways?”

“Duh. The bad guys holed themselves here to avoid spending their ‘hard earned’ dough on property taxes. They’ve got a little dickey to sail toward the Flatlands to give a cut to their evil overlords or something, too, so they don’t need access to our docks. Makes it a real pain to stop them or keep track of them.” She rummaged through her oversized backpack and pulled out her very flat, shiny cell phone. She typed something real quick, grinning, before stuffing it back from whence it came. “Good to go?”

“As I’ll ever be. What do ya want me to do?”

“If the going’s get rough, you can be my back-up. You’re strong, right? Look at you!” She squeezed his bicep. “You’re a real machine! I bet you can pack a wallop when it counts, yeah?”

“I ain’t ever punched nobody on purpose before,” he informed. She deflated a little at the news. “I’m a doc. In training.”

She clapped her hands together, reinvigorated. “A doc-in-training! Actually, that’s _great_ news. You can patch me up if I get banged up too much on-the-fly, yeah? Fantastic! This is gonna go so swimmingly.” She stood up, hands on her hips, and smiled wider than the sea itself. “Ready or not,” which Alfyn felt himself to clearly be in the “not” category, “here comes Tressa!”

 _Next time,_ he made a mental note, watching her storm the cave with the bravado equal to an unstoppable hurricane before shaking his head and following after her, _bring Olberic along before jumpin’ in to save the day._


	9. speedometer

You parade the victory of securing your meal with elated cries. Your seniors desired to filch it from you, to take what is rightfully yours, but you always were more intelligent, more swift. It’s not the usual swimming prey you nabbed, but something from those two-legs - those earth-bound creatures who sing in half-thought melodies deprived of any cadence or beauty. How they mate, you have no idea; none of their songs could attract even the dullest of females among your kind. However, they _do_ have ample food to snatch when they least expect it.

At least they serve a purpose aside from running toward you with no rhyme or reason.

You swallow whole one morsel, two. Something unalive skips across the water once, twice, three times before plummeting into the depths, never to be seen again. Your wings bristle. A yellow two-legs stands ankle-deep in the ocean, picking up rocks with their bizarre limbs and throwing them across water. Beside it, another tall two-legs remains still. They sing in a tongue you don’t understand after you assess they are no threat to you:

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”

“I do not.”

“Even if it’s about Hornburg?” Skip, skip, splunk. They are the only two-legs on the small beach; an oddity for the current height of the sun, you realize. No miniature ones run in circles around poor innocent crabs. Little blessings, you suppose. Another morsel down the hatch.

“I am afraid there is not much to answer,” rumbles the tall one. It reminds you of thunderclouds. Scary. Large. Foreboding. A pain to fly through, so you always seek refuge when the skies grow upset.

“That’s fine. More than fine. I’m just,” skip skip, “curious.” Splunk. “Like, about what happened that day, and why you’re the only one left.”

“I am unsure on all the details myself. But allow me to correct one fact: I am not the only one left.” The winds pick up, and you can hear them whisper unintelligible secrets. “The day was as any other. My shift began. The mayor entered city hall, fulfilled his duties. Come evening, my partner,” the song warbles here, and it’s distasteful, “and I began the escort back home. Usual affairs.”

The yellow one stops chucking rocks and turns, its eyes sweeping over you and to its senior. A large wave batters the rocky portion of the shoreline, almost carrying away what remains of lunch, and your webbed feet back up a few steps. You miss some of the lyrics, but it’s the storm cloud’s turn in the contest for worst songbird. Right now, you daresay it’s the yellow one (too high-pitched, too inconsistent).

“...in one swoop. I was stunned for a moment, and that allowed him to take the mayor and run. Of course, I gave chase, as is my duty - but of the two of us, I always was the slower one. Stronger, yes. But slower. Those few precious seconds I wasted standing there will haunt me until I am six sticks under. If I moved sooner, I think I may have saved Alfred.”

“Oh. Um. I’m sorry.” Skip skip. “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful for you.” 

Splunk.

“It is no matter. What’s done is done. The past cannot be altered. History is history, and it will remain as such long into the future, even if it seems to repeat itself. Or so said a friend of mine once.” A rest. You gobble the last of your sea salt-drenched goods - the winds are calling, and you want to take off soon. “After the mayor perished, I pursued Erhardt out the city gates, where he disposed of the body. I stopped, of course, to see what could be done. But he long passed. The heart was out of its cavity.”

“ _Gods._ ”

“Indeed. I could not believe it to be by Erhardt’s own hands, but that is for me to ask of him once I find him.” Another rest in the song. “As I called for him into the night, I realized I may have needed some assistance. And so, I turned to go back into Hornburg - when _it_ happened. I am still unsure if my eyes deceived me, or perhaps if Erhardt laced my dinner with a hallucinogenic. It still makes little sense, even now. I am afraid any description I give next will not convey the actual occurrence of events.”

It is then you feel it. Something primal, a rustling within your insides, beating ancient wisdom from the planet’s past in your hollow bones. Your head cranes in vain to understand. Your wings outstretch, and can almost feel them wrapping around steel and wood. Not with your feet, no - with your _arms,_ and the term is so foreign to you that you squawk in surprise and alarm. Arms. The creation of tools. Ancestors who prowled the untouched mountains, visions of a past so vivid you think you once lived it.

 _Do you hear me,_ a different wind coos, _my child?_

_Are you ready to return to as all once was, and as all was supposed to be?_

You reject it immediately. For one, no wind that sings so harshly is a friend of yours, and for two, it most definitely will not feed you. The wind seems taken aback at your refusal, and tries to ask you another question, but you instead pluck at a nuisance of a feather refusing to stay down along your belly. Annoyed, the wind tries again, and you promptly shit on the rock to indicate your complete lack of interest. It gets the point, and leaves you alone.

“Try me,” sings the yellow two-legs. “I’m from the Internet, I can understand even the weirdest memes.”

“Very well. I will try. How to say… Well.”

You lift off from the wet rock and almost miss the drowned-out crescendo of the grounded thunderstorm:

“The night sky - it ate Hornburg whole.”

***

Infiltrating the base was as easy as cornering spring peepers in a muddied pond thicket. Drooling heaps of washed-up beer gullets snoozed the sleepweed away, their snores echoing within the cavern. Tressa led the charge, her face oozing in smugness over her “brilliant and a half” schemes. Alfyn followed close behind, hoping to Dohter she accounted for sleepweed’s half-life and measured the amounts appropriately for whatever size bottle or barrel the wine was in. If it was too little, they would wake up anywhere between ten to fifteen minutes.

If it was too much, well. He shook the thought aside; the taste would seep through at those amounts, and the wine would have been discarded. 

Dripping stalactites and rumbling waves penetrated the silence alongside their footsteps as they navigated the slick pathways blanketed with seaweed. Alfyn scuffed his heels against the ground to minimize potential tumbling into the large swaths of tidepools lining the open corridors. If not for the impending possible showdown with the “head honchos,” exploring the seaside cave could have been fun. 

_Nina’d sure love it here, I’d bet my behind on that._

“We’re almost there,” Tressa whispered loudly. She gestured to an expansive space decorated with stacked wooden and cardboard boxes alike. “That’s where they keep the goods. If we can return them to their rightful owners, that’ll be better than any flash-sale of the century!” 

“I thought you were gonna ‘stomp their teeth in,’” he whispered back.

“That too! But part of Operation: Stomp Their Teeth In has a second part to it. That’s just the _abbreviated_ title, see see.” She waggled her forefinger. “The _full_ title is, ‘Operation: Stomp Their Teeth In and Right Wrongs in the Name of Capitalistic Morality Which Sounds Like an Oxymoron but I Promise it’s Not When Enacted Properly Which I Agree,” she took a deep breath before resuming, “Needs Some Work What With Our Richest Being _Too_ Rich but I’m Only Eighteen and Can’t Fix That Right This Second Until I Become the World’s Best Sales Pitcher and Convince Them To Follow Trickle-Down Economics _Properly._ ’ But as you can tell, that’s not as catchy. Won’t fit in a Twidder hashtag, so it _definitely_ can’t start trending. You know?”

No, he most certainly didn’t - but asking for an explanation might cause another long-winded speech they may not have time for. “Can’t ya just call it somethin’ like, I dunno, ‘Operation: Capitalism’s Aeber?’”

Her jaw dropped. “What?! No! Aeber is the worst. The _worst!_ I don’t understand why he’s even a god in the _first_ place. He’s a thief! There’s no greater enemy to mankind than thieves - well, except for hurricanes and plagues and stuff. But it’s still up there! Though, I do like the _sound_ of it.” She hummed, then snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it! Operation: Capitalism’s Bifelgan! It’s _perfect._ ”

“I kinda think Aeber is cooler than Bifelgan, not gonna lie.” He shook his head. “Aeber be, what, a prince? An’ Bifelgan’s just a trader, right?”

“ _Just_ a trader?! You - ugh! You have _awful_ taste. Awful!” She puffed her cheeks in disdain. “But I can prove you wrong later. We’ve got work to do, and rule three of being an influencer is to be as early as can be. Let’s go!”

They toed over a tipped-over barrel bleeding leftover red wine, dribbling thin rivulets down the makeshift stairway. He never understood the appeal of wine. Grapes by themselves were plenty delicious enough. Once you started tampering with perfection, like turning them into those gods-forsaken _raisins_ (couldn’t spell raisin without “sin,” as his Ma liked to say), it just didn’t taste right. He’d stick to the classic beer, thank you very much. Next to the barrel snored a port-bellied man donning an unkempt mustache curling in opposite directions. He didn’t look like he’d be waking up anytime soon.

“Maybe we ain’t even need to do the teeth-kickin’,” Alfyn said, picking up the man’s arm and watching it drop back onto the ground with nary a reaction. “These guys be out cold. I ain’t see nobody awake.”

“That worked out better than I thought! Sleepweed’s a real treat - it’s so weird it’s not on the pharmaceutical market for those with insomnia. Oh well.” She grabbed one box and, with a grunt, began lugging it back. “Help me bring these outside, won’t you? We don’t have all day, I think.”

“This kinda feels like we be robbin’ them,” he commented, picking up a stack of somewhat heavy boxes. His muscles strained. “Ain’t they - nngh - technically bought this stuff off people?”

“For measly ripped-off prices and with thinly-veiled threats! So we’re _not_ robbers - they’re the robbers, make no mistake. _We,_ ” she looked over her shoulder and winked, “are just the _auditors._ Careful of the dip there, you’ll trip.”

Things ran smoothly - almost too smoothly. Goods grew in number outside the cave, and Alfyn worked up a good sweat in going back-and-forth lugging the heavier boxes. How they were going to return everything to their rightful owners before sundown, he had no idea; maybe he’ll phone in a favor and ask Olberic for an extra set of hands. He kept a wary eye on the sleeping scalpers who muttered while dreaming. After ten minutes, they reduced the hoard to about half; in twenty, only stray boxes remained, including one with a hefty padlock snaring it shut.

“Oof!” Tressa stumbled back after trying to lift it. “Yeesh! This thing’s heavier than oil barrels!”

“Lemme try.” In his unfounded confidence, he yanked at the rusty handles to lift the box, only to find himself utterly defeated as it lifted hardly a twig for 0.2 seconds before thumping back onto the ground. “Uh,” he panted, wincing at the twinging in his arms, “y’think they filled it with cement or somethin’?”

“Maybe,” her eyes glittered, “it’s filled with _gold._ ”

“Hah, maybe! But this ain’t a movie, an’ I’m _definitely_ not that lucky.” He rounded the box and grabbed one handle. “Let’s give it a try with two folks, yeah? Can ya lift the other side?”

“I sure can try!”

A count to three, and they both hefted the box upward with minute success. Alfyn bit down on his bottom lip, brow furrowing as he lugged in one step at a time. Tressa’s cheeks puffed larger than an acorn-stuffed squirrel’s while she robotically swung her legs forward. So far, so good; at least nothing awful happened yet. 

They got about half-way across the opening before Alfyn cursed his optimism when the mustached fellow sat up with a groan.

They both froze mid-step, box threatening to slip from their grips.

“Whazzat?” The guy let out a hearty yawn, jaw popping in several places. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. “Who’re ye two?”

“Um!” Tressa covered her alarm with a bright smile. “You see, we’re, uh - we’re customers! Remember how we bought - yeah! We bought things. Scheduled to be delivered this morning. But now it’s, like, not morning, and we very much need our products, sooooo we came by to pick it up ourselves? Right, Alfyn?”

Alfyn nodded so hard he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Yessir, nothin’ but sittin’ on our thumbs be bad for business.”

“And a _fine_ gentleman like yourself understands the three biggest principles of business, right?” She winked. “Be smiley, mannerly, and _early._ ”

The poor guy’s brain, addled from fermented grapes and drugs, visibly rattled his gears to keep up with them. “Uh,” he said at last, then gave a tired nod. “Makes sense to me. Big apologies for keepin’ ye waitin’. Pleasure doin’ business with ye.”

“Thanks a million! C’mon, Alfyn, let’s hop to it.”

“Ye need help?”

“No, no, we couldn’t _possibly_ ask someone as hardworking as yourself to lend a hand! You sure look _beat._ Take a load off, catch some Zs!” She babbled quicker than the brook after a whomper of a thunderstorm, and the guy was most definitely swept up in her waves. 

“Thank ye, lass.” He flopped back down on the ground, arms sprawled out. “Hope to work with ye again.”

“Of course, of course!” She jerked her head toward the corridor, and Alfyn hurried his footsteps to keep up with her. Talk about a close call. If he was any indication, then the others would be rousing soon, too. They couldn’t kill much more time - 

“Makk, you absolute oaf!”

A shrill, gravel-laden voice peeled off the cavern walls and pierced Alfyn’s eardrums. Oh no. A slim tree branch of a man barreled toward them, his ill-fitted flip-flops skidding across the damp rock. He sported a matching pale green bandana like the bigger guy, but none of the other scalpers possessed them. Double oh no - these two, Alfyn’s miniscule deduction skills surmised, were probably the ones in charge.

“Them’s no _customers,_ ” the man said, stamping his foot, “them’s _infiltrators!”_

“Mikk, them’s said they came to pick up them’s goods. All’s well that ends well,” the other replied, scratching at his stomach. “Wake me up for a real emergency.”

“Them’s _taking_ our _money stash._ ”

“So it _is_ gold?” Tressa asked. Alfyn wanted to smack his own forehead. _Now is not the time to be askin’ that!_

“Gold? Hah! We wish. It’s just stacks of leaves we weaseled off them weaklings back in - hey!” Mikk snarled, spittling. “That’s _ours!_ Ya piranhas can’t be nibbling our hard-earned goods!”

“Who’s the piranha, you unfeathered parrot?!” Tressa dropped her side of the box, and Alfyn almost fell with it to the ground. “You lot have intimidated my folks and my town with your crummy business tactics and practically _robbing_ them. I’m here to shut you down, once and for all!”

The more Alfyn squinted, the more he could agree that, yeah, Mikk _did_ look like an unfeathered parrot. Had to be the hawk-like nose. 

“Oh, so ye’ve got a backbone since last we met, have ye?” Mikk cracked his knuckles, and Tressa took a step back. “Think ye can take our crew on with just yerself and some measly chump? Ye got guts, kiddo.”

“I ain’t no _measel,_ mister.” Alfyn frowned. “I be hale an’ hearty.”

“And I’m _not_ a ‘kiddo!’ I’m eighteen! A fine and proper young adult!” Tressa huffed.

“Muh?” Makk, at last, decided to stand up. “Eighteen? Ye don’t look a day past twelve.”

“Oh, you’re _asking_ for it,” Tressa grumbled, eyes narrowing. “I’ll make you eat your words and choke them back up by the time I’m done with you!”

“Ye hear that, Makk? Lassie’s gonna give us a _fight._ ” Mikk rolled up his sleeves, a nasty grin unfurling on his lips. “Let’s show the runt her place in the business pyramid!”

(“Now, Alf.” Ma hushed his sobs with a few runs of her thumb across his bruised cheek. “What’d I say ‘bout pickin’ fights with those bigger than you are, hey?” 

“They been makin’ _fun_ of ‘er!” he wailed, wincing as she rubbed some icy cream along his face. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed up the escaping snot. “What _else_ was I s’posed to do?”

She hummed, soft brown eyes crinkling around the corners while she smiled. Crow’s feet, she called them, but he still couldn’t see the resemblance. “If yer so insistent on bein’ a whippersnapper, I guess not much else, no?” She ruffled the bush that made up his hair. “But if ya ever get yerself in a fight, ya should have a few cards up yer sleeves.”

“But,” he sniffed, “ya told me I ain’t ever s’posed to throw no punches, Ma.”

“That’s right, I did, didn’t I? Can’t be breakin’ my own rules here.” Her smile widened. “Ya know what they say ‘bout rules, Alf?”

“They’re made to be broken?”

“Nah.” She smeared sanitizer on the cut running along his knee. “They’re made to have _loopholes._ So, sure, I ain’t allowin’ ya to throw punches. However,” the flowery bandage sealed the minor laceration shut, “I ain’t said nothin’ ‘bout yer _feet,_ now have I?”)

Mikk, with all his scrounged-up bravado aided by glinting brass knuckles, performed a wonderful swan dive right into a tidepool when Alfyn dodged the first fist and promptly stuck out his foot to trip the sucker up. Water shot up like a miniature geyser as Makk, eyes wide, set his sights on Tressa instead - which was his first mistake. His second mistake followed when he lunged for her. Alfyn’s warning yelp died on his tongue when she chucked her hat right at his face, blinding him, before leaping into the hair with a roar not quite “mighty” but darn sure was close enough. Her heel wedged itself in the crook of his poor neck - Alfyn winced - and hurdled Makk back onto the ground from whence he came.

“That’s!” Mikk sputtered and hacked up water, his bony frame more apparent with his clothes soaked. “That’s no _fair._ ”

“You know what’s not fair, _pal?_ ” Tressa rubbed her forefinger underneath her nose. “You two conning the vulnerable!”

“Mikk,” Makk gargled around the dirt he ate, “them’s _tough._ ”

“But them’s _outnumbered,_ ” Makk replied, dripping seawater from every orifice. The corner of his upper lip twitched. “And ye know what they say: the more ye have of something, the better. Isn’t that right, _boys?_ ”

Triple oh no. The echoing footsteps of too many bodies sprinkled goosebumps along the back of Alfyn’s neck. Lackeys of varying degrees of sobriety lined the opening’s entrance, their expressions anything but friendly. 

“Boss,” one leered, “they giving you trouble?”

“Take out the trash for me, lads.” Makk’s grin stretched from ear-to-ear, belief settled upon a pre-destined victory. “And get back our goods!”

“Wait!”

Alfyn’s bellow resonated throughout the entire cavern, freezing everyone in place. “Wait,” he said again, lower this time. He had no idea what the hell he was doing, but he needed to buy more time for - for something. Anything. A miracle, maybe. “I realized somethin’. Yer names be Mikk an’ Makk?”

“What’s it to ye?” Makk twirled one side of his mustache.

“Like that nursery rhyme? _Mikk, Makk, paddywhack, give a dog a bone? Yessir, yessir, three bags full?_ ”

The following silence stretched for several seconds too long. Their lackeys looked at each other with confounded confusion while Mikk and Makk stared hard at Alfyn’s absolute asinine revelation.

“Gods, look what the Orsterran public school system do to ye, lads!” Makk slapped his own thigh, boisterous laughter erupting from his lips. “For one, _boy,_ it’s _knick knack._ Knick knack! And ye done mixed them’s rhymes into complete nonsense! There be no _Mary Hads a Little Lamb_ in the dogbone nursery, who _failed_ ye?”

“Makk, ye dotard, it’s no _Mary Lamb,_ it’s the _Baa Baa Black Sheeps._ ” Mikk pinched the bridge of his nose, brow furrowing. “Mary’s lamb be all that fur white as snow in Flamesgrace. Like where the writer came from, ‘member?”

“How’m _I_ supposed to remember them’s details?” 

Tressa reached for a small stone while Alfyn sank his hand into his pocket, feeling the telltale jingle of Meadow’s spare key, his house key, and the little doohickey bangle dangling persistently. Compared to the brass knuckles or the sheer might of Mikk’s size, his makeshift defense felt flimsy at best. He eyed Tressa, who betrayed no flicker of fear at the foes before her. Talk about a spine made of cement. 

“Well, it don’t matter either way, now do it?” Makk rolled his shoulder. “Them’s gonna swim with the fishies from now on. Ain’t need no extra lessons for that. Get ‘em, boys!”

The fight went as swimmingly as salmon chucking themselves up a waterfall only to get swiped midair by a hungry Woodland bear. Alfyn considered himself no small fry, clocking in around six sticks and a few twigs to boot to overshadow the lackeys, but one man against a scoopful was challenging. Tressa, in all her swift and cunning ducks and punches and tricks, could only wriggle herself so much before the inevitable.

So they just had to make sure the inevitable never came. Easy enough. Circled, Alfyn kicked up a swathe of seaweed at one poor fellow’s face before rolling away from another’s attempt to grab him. He swept yet another off his feet with a well-placed leg before shrugging off an assailant trying to latch onto his back. Tressa sank her hands into a tide pool and slashed seawater into a sucker’s eyes before sticking out her tongue - only to gasp and yell,

“Alfyn, look out!”

Brass knuckles. He turned his head in time to see Mikk’s weapon of choice swing right at his nose, and then, with another fist to follow up, at his lower jaw. The hits stunned Alfyn for a moment, teeth threatening to dislodge, before Mikk shrieked,

“Learn to play dead and _stay_ that way, ye worm!”

And then -

Blue. Sky-colored like a late summer’s twilight, a scent of flowery oil and metal. Alfyn fell to the ground on his ass, hands throbbing after stopping himself from skidding. Mikk, too, fell - but with as much grace as a moose trying to master the square dance and with the consciousness of a hibernating chipmunk. The patch of blue waltzed in tandem with a golden mane, dashing from one man to another with such ease and quickness that Alfyn’s eyes couldn’t keep up. 

_A tempest,_ his dizzied mind decided, _and an unstoppable one._

Bodies decorated the floors in a heap once again, piled around the tempest’s feet. He brushed his long, unruly locks over his shoulder - _wow, what a hottie_ \- before clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

“Miss,” he said, attention shifting to Tressa, “you really thrive on danger too large for your small hands, no?”

“ _Hey,_ ” she replied, fixing her tousled ponytail and readjusting her dress, “I am plenty capable of handling things! Er, when they go according to _plan,_ of course. Wait a sec, why are you even here?”

The hero-of-the-hour tied his azure scarf into a secure knot. “The winds of misfortune were howling, and I knew you wouldn’t allow the incident in-town to go unaccounted for,” he replied. Did he hop out of Zeph’s comic books or something? No way a man this charismatic or strong existed. Alfyn tried to stop from gawking. “Seeing you’ve gone and collected most of the goods, I daresay we are nearly done here.”

“Who the hell ye _be,_ pretty boy?” Makk grunted and pushed himself up with great effort. “What makes ye think ye can come in ‘ere and -”

“Makk, shut _up,”_ Mikk hissed. “Look at that there scarf! Do ye think it’s -”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” A soft but unkind smile donned the stranger’s face while tugging at his pristine white gloves. “Don’t you know it’s rude to speak of others when they can clearly hear you?” He glanced at Alfyn, then to Tressa once more. “Although, given how you treat your guests, I reckon your parents never quite gave you the one-on-one lessons on how to be a civilized human being. Shall _I_ teach you?”

“Leon,” Tressa said, exasperated, “I think we’ve given them enough lessons for one day, don’t you thi -”

“ _Ah!_ ” Mikk and Makk gasped in unison before scrabbling toward the edge of the opening. “It _is_ him! _The_ Leon!”

Said-Leon - the man, the myth, the apparent legend Alfyn missed in grade school - reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with a gold-encased lighter, the design too intricate for Alfyn’s pounding head to make out. He inhaled slowly, exhaled, then deigned to spare the two shivering scalpers a glance. 

“If you know of my _reputation,_ my dear lads,” he said, pitching his voice low and suave, “then you know what _follows_ it, no?”

“Run! Run for them hills!”

They scrambled faster than eggs on a skillet, their cries of _forgive me!_ and _please spare us!_ trailing off in the distance. Alfyn’s shoulders slumped in exhaustion - gods, what a day, and now his nose felt crooked. And wet. He wedged the back of his hand under his nose and kept his head tilted down as his nosebleed persisted.

“Leon?” Tressa pressed, head tilting to the side. “What was that all about?”

“We’ll discuss it,” he answered coolly (gods, Alfyn would give a kidney to be half as cool as this man), “ _after_ we address the remaining goods and tending to wounds, given how your friend here is bleeding from both nostrils.”

“Huh? Oh! Alfyn!” Her eyes widened. “Gosh, are you gonna be okay?”

Good question. He’d have to take a look at the damage once they got back and he had a proper mirror to judge himself by. Tressa’s gnawing worry needed to be eased, though. “M’fine,” he replied, voice muffled. He gave a thumbs up. “Ain’t nothin’ a good beer an’ some grapes can’t fix.”

A sharp laughter and a clapping of hands redirected his attention back to Leon. “Good show, lad. But you’ll want to take care of it sooner rather than later. The lass and I,” he smiled politely to Tressa, “can handle the rest from here while you go and recover.”

“He’s right, we can handle the clean-up!” She nodded once, twice, six times in rapid succession. “I’m sorry you got hurt on my behalf, I…” She lowered her head, eyes downcast. “I _really_ thought it’d go off without a hitch, but I guess that’s what happens when you set sail with only half a map and no compass.”

“Hey, ain’t no worries. I’m glad I tagged along, ‘cause doin’ that by yerself might’ve gotten ya in deep waters real quick.” 

“I’ll make it up to you!” She clasped her hands together. “Promise! Swing by my Pop’s shop tomorrow morning when we’re open, and I’ll have something _good_ for you, as we agreed to.”

“You ain’t gotta -”

“On my honor as a social media star,” she pounded her chest, “I _do_ , in fact, go to! I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer! You _will_ swing by, and you _will_ accept my payment for your help. Got it?”

Alfyn looked to Leon for assistance, who merely shrugged.

“Life lesson from sailing the seas, boy,” he said, chuckling, “don’t try and argue with a storm. Now go get yourself patched up.”

***

Therion’s unimpressed stare twitched several times.

“So.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Let me get the details straight here. You followed some little kid -”

“Young adult,” Alfyn corrected while applying a salve to the forming bruise on his cheek. The blood long-since stopped, cotton jammed in the nostrils to catch it. The crook in his nose probably wouldn’t go away anytime soon. It might be broken, but it didn’t quite _hurt_ as much as he’d expected a broken nose to feel like. “She be eighteen.”

“Whatever. You followed that girl and proceeded to get jumped by some get-rich-quick dickheads, and never _once_ thought that _maybe_ that was a bad idea.” He threw his hands up in the air. “I can’t believe how stupid you are. Why extend yourself into danger for someone you don’t even _know_ , quack. Is that part of your bullshit quack-code.”

“For the record -” Alfyn winced when he removed the cotton, wiggling the nostrils to see if anything else wanted to leak out, “- I thought _several_ times that it might be a bad time, but heck if I’m gonna let some short girl take on a den of assholes by ‘erself, y’know? Just ain’t gonna sit right with me. An’ for yer other question, yeah.” He glanced at Therion, who pointedly avoided his gaze. “It be part of my ‘bullshit quack-code.’ If you ain’t like it, yer free to hitch a ride with someone else.”

“Almost wish I _did,_ ” Therion groused. Which, in Therion-isms, meant _I might not like it, but I’ve decided that it’s actually more convenient to stick with you than hopping on trains, no matter what nonsense you decide to engage in._ For someone who tried so hard to put on the airs of an unreadable cactus, Alfyn found him to be one of the easier books in the library to skim through. It almost felt familiar.

_Wonder why._

“Anyways.” Therion leaned against the dresser, watching Alfyn stick on adhesive bandages. “Rus - _Meadow_ will be taken care of tomorrow, so we can get back on the road once she’s done.”

Alfyn whistled. “You’re _amazin’_ , you know? How the heck didja get so much money so quick?”

“I have my methods.”

“An’ these methods be under that ‘don’t ask questions’ clause?”

“You know it.”

“Sheesh. You be the one on an’ on ‘bout me puttin’ myself in danger, but is there anythin’ I need to be worried ‘bout you doin’ the same?” He closed up his first-aid kit and sighed. Well, he looked worse for wear, but at least the throbbing died down some. 

“It won’t be any danger to you, even if I got caught.”

Caught? Something illegal, maybe? Or maybe something affiliated with the not-government Therion insisted he totally didn’t work for. He decided to ignore that detail for now. “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout me here, but _you,_ Therion.” He stuffed the kit into one of his bags before resting his hand on his hip. “I mean, we ain’t been travel-buddies for long, but I still care ‘bout yer well-bein’ and stuff.”

A pause. For a second, Alfyn thought he heard a confused _“Why?”_ muttered under Therion’s breath, but it was quickly swallowed up with, “Then you’re naïve.”

“My Ma used to say s’better to be naïve than to be a turtle that refuses to come outta its shell. An’ why _wouldn’t_ I care ‘bout ya? Yer the whole reason why I be here in the first place.” He smiled. “So far, it’s been a real treat.”

“What, getting your nose dislodged?”

“Other than that. I meant like, meetin’ new people, explorin’ new places. Ain’t that excitin’?”

“You’re naïve _and_ impossible.” Therion pushed himself off the dresser and headed toward the hotel room’s door. He stopped with his hand on the knob. “Kit and Olberic said they’d meet us at some café,” he said, spitting out each word with great difficulty. “Did you want to come with for dinner.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Heck, sure do. You’re going too?”

“Only if you don’t pull some bullshit and go running off on your stupid adventures on the way there,” Therion groused, and then held open the door for a beaming Alfyn to follow.


	10. center console

Dawn at sea possessed a certain magic Alfyn couldn’t quite name. Unmanned boats bobbed in the waves, the skies went from pitch black to a creeping dark blue, and the first inklings of sunshine glittered off the sands. He sat at the edge of one of the piers, pants rolled up to his thighs and feet sunk into the somewhat frigid waters to soothe the blisters along his heels. He leaned back, closed his eyes. Even if the air was a smidge too briney for his tastes, right then, it was just what he needed after a difficult night’s sleep.

A seagull landed on one of the posts close by, its head jerking in awkward angles. Alfyn, in his half-awake stupor, waved at his new temporary friend. Neither of them spoke to each other. His gaze shifted back to the water while he yawned. He checked his cellphone for the fourth time in twenty minutes, only to reconfirm he still had not a bar of service. No new messages, no missed phone calls. Only the reminder he pretended he couldn’t see, placed on “Snooze” six times in a row. He sighed.

 _Dear Zeph,_ he composed a mental text in his head, _how’s it going? I couldn’t sleep well last night because my nose hurts like hell since the adrenaline’s worn off… on top of other reasons. You know the ones. That aside, I helped some young lady take on some jerks and got roughed up. I know, I know, I’m no trained martial artist like your sister - did she pass her belt exam thing? Forgot to ask before I left. How’s Mercedes? How’s married life?_

_How’s life without me around to give you more trouble than it’s worth?_

He cracked a grin at his own thoughts. Man, the nonsense they’d get up to, the people they’d bother with their childish antics. One time, they wandered through the woods close to Cricket Pond and got lost for six hours. Ma really gave him a lecture for that one after she bawled her eyes out upon finding them. Zeph’s pops almost blew a head gasket, his cheeks so red with anger he almost looked like a bell pepper.

Neither of them could give them heck for misbehaving now, though.

Alfyn swallowed. The alarm chimed again, the assignment reading: “1 YR ANNI.”

Right. Today. He almost forgot - or at least pretended to almost forget, as if he hadn’t stared at the impending date on the regular even while playing chauffeur. He ran a hand through his tangled hair.

 _Hey, Ma._ The stars began fading. _Thanks for keeping an eye on me yesterday by sending that guy to rescue us. Seems like something you’d do, yeah? I appreciate it. Catch any big ones in the heavens? I haven’t fished since you - since then. Didn’t even bring a rod with me on the trip or nothing, either. Sorry. It’s just - I just._

Behind him, the tents comprising the marketplace began to bustle with its first signs of life. A fishing hull pulled up to the pier next to him, the crew mates hurrying to unload their catches for another day of sales. He stared as they moved like clockwork, hefting crates to one of the tents. Skilled. Skilled and strong and working with _purpose._ Alfyn licked his lips and turned away, brow furrowing. 

_Everyone around me’s got some kinda idea with where they want to be and how they wanna get there._ He kicked his leg through the water with a mighty sploosh. _When did I get so stuck? I feel like I’m seeing the world now, but I ain’t got a damn clue about what to do with myself none no more. Olberic be looking for revenge, Kit’s looking for his pops, and Therion’s doing that secretive stuff about some stones for the government._

He frowned. He sucked in a sharp breath. He dug his fingernails into the sopping, slowly rotting wood, eyes watering as the sun ascended over the horizon line.

_All I got be my quack medicine that couldn’t even do a damn thing when you -_

“Ah. Here you are, Alfyn. Good morning.”

His head jerked up. Olberic stood a few paces away, his arms folded across his chest, his countenance as alert as ever. Alfyn managed a grin.

“Howdy, Olberic. What’s got you up and at ‘em so early?”

“It is habitual for me to rise early.”

“Hear it be good for ya to do that.”

“Indeed.” A pregnant pause. “How are your wounds?”

“Stings a bit, but it ain’t nothin’ I’m none too familiar with. One time, I fell on some big-ass log an’ cut my thigh right on open as kiddo. Had to get stitches. Compared to that, this be nothin’.” He rubbed the scruff peppering his jawline; he needed to shave again soon. “Thanks for yer concern though, s’much appreciated.”

“If you find yourself in a bind again, please do not hesitate to inquire me for assistance. It is the least I can provide, seeing as you are so kind to allow me to travel with you.”

For a bodyguard, Olberic spoke almost as politely as those fancy scholars. Alfyn’s imagination pictured bodyguards to be gruff and rude, but, despite all his hard edges, Olberic portrayed a certain softness in his voice. A gentle giant, one who could lay down the law when it became necessary. “Thanks,” he said again, then removed his feet from the water. His toes wrinkled from being submerged for so long. “Kit an’ Therion be up yet?”

Olberic shook his head.

“Well.” He unrolled his pants and pulled on his socks and sneakers. “Wanna help me find some grub for ‘em when they _do_ wake up? If last night’s anythin’ to go by, Kit’s about to hit a growth spurt an’ a half pretty soon here.”

“It is perplexing how he defeated me in an ‘eating contest’ of sorts.”

“Kids. Can’t underestimate ‘em, y’know?”

One day, Zeph and Mercedes might have a handful of children running around a warm, comfortable home. Nina’d get jealous of them manipulating her brother’s time, no doubt - until she got to the age where it was “uncool” to like your own brother. Of course, Alfyn wasn’t quite sure how true that was, seeing as he had no siblings of his own. Or family of his own. Not anymore, at any rate.

(“You can consider _us_ family,” Zeph consoled during the funeral. Blue skies and freshly turned dirt with a shiny new gravestone in Clearbrook’s lone cemetery. A beautiful day. The flowers were lovely. Her favorites: dandelions. White and puffy to hail the coming summer. He plucked one, blew the seeds, watched them scatter mindlessly to nowhere.

“I’d love to,” Alfyn replied. The squeeze on his shoulder was almost reminiscent of _hers,_ but not quite.

 _But for how long ‘til ya find family elsewhere?_ )

“Wait,” Olberic warned, “Alfyn - “

A moment too late; Alfyn’s noggin collided with one of the street signs. He squawked and rubbed the reddening spot. 

“Did you rest at all? You seem somewhat,” Olberic frowned, “different today.”

He let out a sheepish laugh. “On an’ off. Guess the humidity’s gettin’ to me. Sleepin’ in warm temps be terrible.”

Olberic’s face flickered with indecipherable questions, but he voiced none of them. Instead, he turned his head toward one of the tents, open already with a portly woman beaming at them. “She is selling food,” he said, nodding once.

“No kiddin’, I can smell the tastiness from ‘ere. Let’s get some.”

And by “some,” he may or may not have splurged what leftover leaves Therion (totally discreetly, if not for Alfyn feeling the slight disturbance in his back pocket of his wallet being removed then immediately put back heavier than ever while waiting in line to place their orders last night) gave him on a variety of treats. Maybe too many; he struggled with the paper bags pressed to his chest while they walked back to the hotel. Hey, it wasn’t _his_ fault he got chatting with Mrs. Dimpleton, who had recently remarried to a _wonderful_ wife and needed extra money for feeding the ten farm kittens they recently adopted after a _tragic_ incident in which - he nearly tripped on a loose brick. Oops. Walking and thinking at the same time was never a bright idea for him.

“Need aid?” Olberic offered.

“Nah, I got it, but can ya get the door?”

Their accommodations this time was a waterfront house built over one hundred years ago, but the levels of care and dedication devoted to maintaining its appearance tricked tourists into believing it to be recently constructed. Their room, residing on the top level, overlooked the beach and ocean, and had enough beds this time to accommodate them all. (Therion refused to allow Alfyn to see the bill. “Need to know basis,” he said - more like, _I really do not trust you with managing the finances, so just leave it to me from now on so I know it’s done right._ Typical mysterious Therion.) It even had a kitchen much bigger than the one in Alfyn’s apartment.

He set the bags on the counter and stretched out his back. No signs of Kit or Therion yet. He glanced at the clock - _wow, I really am up earlier than normal -_ before grabbing the provided skillet and turning on the stovetop.

“You are cooking breakfast,” Olberic stated.

“Sure am.”

“Hm.” 

“I’m practicin’ a recipe we got from Cobbleston. Got it from Maryanne, the lady there at the Sheepstone Inn? Therion an’ Kit really liked her omelets, so.” 

“Hm,” Olberic said again, possibly from lack of better things to say. Alfyn felt a bit bad; he knew he tended to ramble a lot, often sharing useless information nobody quite cared about as much as he did. Olberic at least had the patience and kindness to listen, but struggled in contributing his own thoughts. Or so Alfyn felt. They just met the other day, after all; maybe the guy had specific requirements to get conversational - “You are thoughtful,” he continued, and Alfyn’s hand paused around one of the eggs he intended to crack.

“Nah, I -”

“You are,” Olberic interjected. “It is something you should take pride in, Alfyn - not something to shy away from.”

“Aw, man, don’t be singin’ me praises none, or else my ass’ll scratch worse than landin’ in a pit of fire ants.”

“I - I apologize, I do not think I follow.”

“Some kinda weird schtick I got.” The oil popped and sizzled at an optimal temperature. He glanced at the recipe, shrugged, and cracked the egg against the skillet’s edge. “Whenever someone compliments me, my ass itches. My ma used to joke that my heart be there instead of my chest, y’know? ‘Cause like, ya get all kindsa them palpitations whenever someone’s nice an’ stuff. Or. Uh. Somethin’.”

Olberic blinked once. Twice. “I see,” he said, and left it at that. Probably for the better. Alfyn coughed, slightly embarrassed.

“Uh, anyways.” _Thaaaat’s enough oversharin’ for one day there, buddy._ “Can’t guarantee it’ll be good, but anythin’ you want specific for your omelette?”

“Cheese will be enough.”

Cooking proved to be a wonderful distraction; his mind focused on the day’s itinerary rather than on ruminating the past. Assess supplies, plan route, meet with Tressa, get Meadow back, leave Rippletide toward - toward where? Atlasdam, right? Mercedes used to work there as a librarian. _Whole buncha stuffy types, lemme tell you what,_ she said, but in a warm manner revealing she liked the environment all the same. She recounted stories while drinking in the local bar about some professor who loved to ramble on about hyper-specific histories regaling tales of ancient kings and what-have-you. _He’s the worst of them, but in the best way possible,_ she said. _You and he might get along, Alf._

(“Whazzat s’posed t’mean?” He chortled over his beer, grin sluggish. “Y’sayin’ I be the best-worst of whatever?”

“I mean you two be quite the chatterboxes, so you’ll never run out of things to say,” she amended, nudging him. “Hope you two get to meet one day, ‘cause _that_ will be a sight to see.”)

Maybe he would, after all. Then again, if those many pamphlets decorating Saintsbridge about Atlasdam’s academy were anything to go by, the campus was _ginormous._ Locating one professor in a sea of them might prove to be as successful as throwing a worm in the ocean in hopes of landing a Great White: not very well at all. Then again, who wanted to fish up a Great White? He needed more sleep. Instead, he cracked another egg, buttered some toast, and slid a plate to Olberic, who inclined his head in silent thanks.

Therion’s shadow slinked by the corner of Alfyn’s eye, followed by the running waters of the shower. Kit was still dozing, but he’d bet his left arm that once he sprinkled the chopped garlic on the frying pan, the guy would come running for more food. He paused, then shook his head - _don’t think about it._

“You planning on burning those eggs or what,” Therion said, swiping the spatula and flipping them. Alfyn’s tiny squeak was covered by a well-timed cough. 

“My bad, got to thinkin’.”

“Wasn’t aware you were capable.” Classic Therion, tongue always ready to deliver quick and sassy rebuttals. His hair dripped from the shower and covered a large swath of his face, although the perpetual scowl was still visible. “Go eat a grape and go back to bed. You look worse than the other day. Don’t want you falling asleep on us while driving.”

Despite himself, he grinned. “Shucks, Therion, sure sounds like you be _worryin’_ over me. You sure _I’m_ the one who needs some Zs?”

“See, this is why you need to sleep more.” Therion flipped the omelet with a distinct grace that made Alfyn wonder if he worked in a kitchen before. “Insomnia makes you delusional.”

Behind them, Olberic cleared his throat to cover what suspiciously sounded like a chuckle. Alfyn let out a dramatic sigh, still grinning, before handing Therion an empty plate to place the food on.

“Okay, okay. But after I eat somethin’.”

***

Something was clearly wrong with the quack. Sure, Therion never doubted something was wrong with the moron in the first place, what with permitting someone who stole his _wallet_ to hitch a ride in his truck, but today especially seemed _off._ The grins felt forced, the exhaustion still settled on his broad-ass shoulders, and he almost fell asleep eating his damn breakfast. Therion didn’t care - not really - but if they were going to get places, he needed Alfyn to get it together and talk to someone who wasn’t him. Like Olberic. Or, hell, whoever else the bastard friended in the many conversations he had the misfortune to put up with.

Whatever. While the doofus dozed, he had better things to do. Like paying off the truck. The girl from before, her blonde locks dyed with smeared oil, appeared as bored as yesterday when he entered the mechanic’s shop. 

“ _Wow,_ ” the annoyance of the day named Kit said, his bright-eyed wonderchild face lighting up. “I’ve never been in one of these before.”

“Why are you so excited over stacked tires. Stop _touching_ them, you’ll push them over.” Gods, why the hell was _he_ assigned babysitting duty? Who needed to “train ones muscles” for two hours when you were already built like a brick house? Then again, arguing with Olberic sounded like a bad plan, and Alfyn needed peace and quiet to snore like a jackhammer. “And quit touching the glass displays, you’ll leave fingerprints all over them. What are you, six?”

“What are you, a grandpa?” Kit puffed his cheeks. “I’m not hurting anything. I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Therion drawled, approaching the counter.

“But satisfaction brought it back,” Kit countered. “Try again.”

“I’m taller than you, squirt. Don’t test me.”

“Why are you such a _grouch?_ I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once so far. Do you think it makes you uncool or something?”

Gods, grant him the patience to not throw Alfyn’s temporary adoptee halfway across the ocean. He sucked in a slow, deliberate breath and chose to ignore the nuisance. The woman behind the counter smirked, amused at their banter but wisely chose not to comment on it. He paid the remainder of the bill (with extra to spare, what a good haul he managed to swipe; commerce towns really were the best bang for your bucks) and accepted the keys she returned.

“Just gonna give you some forewarning,” she said, hands on her hips. “That model there you’re driving had a recall several years ago. Not that you can do anything about it now, since the warranty expired, but they’re all supposed to be off the road.”

“Why?”

“Airbags don’t deploy correctly,” she said. “Even if you had a head-on collision, there’s a heavy delay for both the driver’s side and passenger’s side. I’d recommend getting a new vehicle as soon as possible if I were you. There’s a dealership in Grandport if you’re interested. We tried our hand at fixing the wiring, but,” she shook her head, “can’t guarantee it’ll do much good, since it’s been a hot minute the last time we saw one of those trucks. The manufacturer went and got bought by a new company, too, so you can’t even take it to the dealership to get it addressed.”

“But everything else is working fine,” Therion inquired.

“Yup. Got everything else in working order, so she’ll work for you a bit longer. Six months at least, but you’ve got to know she’s putting in overtime, being such an old girl. She needs to be retired - the sooner, the better.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.”

Alfyn would not give up his mother’s truck so easily. He’d drive it until the brake cables snapped and the steering wheel jammed. He sighed as he walked around the back of the garage, spotting the rusted tin can baking in the sun. Still, it sparkled from a good washing, the layered mud cake decorating Rus - _Meadow’s_ body nowhere to be seen anymore. Huh. He could even make out the old blue paint job it used to have.

“Alfyn really likes old cars, huh?” Kit pursed his lips and poked one of Meadow’s headlights. 

“Sure.”

Kit hummed, as if thinking, before turning to Therion. “So,” he rocked back on the balls of his feet, “I have a question for you.”

“What else is new.”

“Well, I mean, but this one has been nagging me for a bit. And I didn’t really know how to bring it up with everyone else around.” 

Therion raised a less-than-amused eyebrow before returning his attention to the truck. The key stuck fast into the driver’s side door, which no longer squeaked when it opened. These mechanics knew how to meet customer satisfaction, unlike the ones in Bolderfall. That asshole Yucksov barked orders and swindled cash for shit repairs. 

“Um,” Kit continued, hefting himself up into the passenger’s side. “So, uh, I’m on the Internet a lot. Like, a lot a lot. I’m a big sucker for rabbit holes, you know?” A pause. “I was wondering if you’ve ever heard of, uh, the Ghost.” 

Therion stopped turning the keys in the ignition part way. 

“Some of the forums said there were some master hackers who roamed the Internet and targeted other big-name groups, and that these people always ripped their information from them without a trace. Because of how skilled they were, they, uh, were called ‘Ghost.’”

Meadow rattled to life with a significant new ease.

“Your point?”

“Well, uh,” Kit appeared sheepish, “the thing is, a couple of years ago, apparently the Ghost team split? And one of them claiming to be a part of Ghost said the other got his ‘just desserts?’ They even called their partner a ‘dirty mophead POS’ and… other things. Some specific but just vague enough allusions to what their partner, uh, looked like.”

(Saintsbridge is falling down, falling down, falling down -)

“And there was this Viewtubes video going over the Ghost hackers or something - it didn’t get very many views - that pieced together some of what one of the Ghost members might look like? And, uh, I thought, maybe,” Kit looked away, hands in his lap, “maybe he sort of kind of somewhat looked like you. White hair, hazel eyes - so - uh. Yeah.”

Therion’s forefinger rapped against the steering wheel. He finally bothered to put Meadow into gear.

“And, well, when you and Maryanne talked about the DRGN-ST0Ns, I… Uh… thought maybe it really _is_ you.”

Shit. He should have known better than to just assume no one in their group understood them, and realized Kit was eavesdropping. “You know about the stones.”

“I just said I’m from the Internet pretty much. Those things are like, one of the biggest mysteries on there. Most people don’t think they even exist.”

“Well, I hate to burst your bubble,” Therion diverted, voice flat, “but I don’t know what this ‘Ghost’ thing you’re talking about is. I’m not the only albino in Orsterra. And my current ‘job’ is just me getting those stupid things back to their owners. Nothing more.”

Silence. Meadow lurched forward as Therion drove back toward the hotel to make it a bit easier to pack up and leave once Alfyn rested enough. The sooner they could ditch this kid, the better. He turned on the radio to squash Kit from coming up with more too-close-to-home assumptions.

“Sorry,” Kit mumbled. 

(“Sorry,” cackled his (former) partner, delighted malice bursting in eyes once warm and - as Therion once believed - loving. A long-winded con, and Therion fell for it, and he found himself falling once again just like the song his late-father used to sing:

 _Saintsbridge is falling down, falling down, falling down -_ )

It wasn’t like he was ashamed of his former and technically current profession. Anyone in the world could take one glance at him and realize, _oh, this guy’s a bad apple in some way._ And yeah, he’d be the first to admit it, and hell, used to be proud of his “talents,” but - he scowled - he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to glimpse back at that spiraling, hollowed abyss, didn’t want to stare at the emptied cavity where his heart once resided. _Ghost._ He didn’t even choose that name, that was all Darius during a drunken stupor after celebrating another DDOS attack on some hackers based in Riverford. 

(“Matches your hair,” Darius slurred in his cute ( _hideous_ ) giggle-fits. He ran his fingers along Therion’s scalp. “All white and shit. Least you’re tangible so I can touch you.”)

Therion swatted at his own head, batting the memory aside. If Kit saw, he didn’t comment.

The less the others knew the truth, the less he had to remember. 

The tattoo near his wrist itched. He ignored it.

“Huh,” Kit said at last, sitting up straighter in his seat, “who’s that with Alfyn?”

Oh no. Therion’s attention returned to the present as Meadow pulled into the hotel’s parking lot. Near the entrance, Alfyn (he appeared a little more ‘normal’) chatted with some shorty in a stupid hat - oh _no_ \- who carried a huge, hefty bag on her shoulders - _gods pissing dammit_ \- and matched his grin with a wide one of her own. 

“I asked _one thing_ of you,” he grumbled, turning Meadow off. “ _One thing,_ you absolute -”

“Therion!” Alfyn waved - his cheer felt around, oh, eighty percent of his normal annoyingness, so the sleep did him some good. The girl followed his cue and waved with him. _I’m going to drive off the pier._ “Good timing, I want ya to meet a new buddy of mine. Hey, Kit! Didn’t see ya there, thought you were with Olberic.”

They both got out of the truck, and Therion trudged toward Alfyn, mentally prepared for the impending reality of this overly-chipper squirrel disguised as a human whose eyes sparkled with maybe actual stars joining them. He grunted during introductions, and resigned himself to the gods literally hating him when Alfyn said:

“So, I told ‘er we be doin’ a trip -”

“I’m coming with you guys!” She bounced on her heels. “I was all in a _tizzy_ over how to repay your friend here for helping me, especially since I got the bug all of yesterday to go out and find the world’s greatest treasure of all, but then I realized, _hey,_ what greater reward is there than to make new memories with new friends! So, so.” She pounded her chest and nodded several more times than necessary. Therion developed a headache. “I, Orsterra’s future greatest social marketing manager ever, am looking forward to travelling with you!”

How was there someone in this world more rambunctious than _Kit._

“Alfyn,” Therion grumbled, to which Alfyn shrugged.

“The more the merrier, yeah?”

This man was going to drive him into an early grave. “Where is she going to _sit._ We don’t have room. Remember? There’s already four of us.”

“Well, actually, I kinda figured out the arrangements. See,” he gestured to Meadow, “I’ll be drivin’ an’ Olberic’ll sit in the front. You, Kit, an’ Tressa are all small enough to fit in the back. We can put our supplies in the back of the truck.”

“And I’ll totally make it worth your while,” she exclaimed, giving a thumb’s up. “I might be on the young side, but I can manage a pocketbook for long-term expenditures better than Pops! Alfyn told me he’s a bit of a mess with money, but I’ve got the skills to bargain like the best of them! _And,_ ” her eyebrows waggled (how the hell did she _do_ that?), “I can find the best Welp! reviews for hotels and restaurants. Sounds like a steal, yeah?”

Sounds like a steal of Therion’s last semblance of sanity. He pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled slowly. He… _supposed_ it would be nice to have someone handle the money instead of him trying to juggle _making it_ and _balancing it._ He let his hand drop and realized the other three stared at him in anticipation, awaiting his decision. Since when did he have the final say in these decisions, and how come he didn’t have that privilege earlier to stop Alfyn from picking up more “friends?”

He glanced at Alfyn, the source of this pain in the ass, and found his resolve faltering to the classic “puppy dog eyes” trick. He never was a huge fan of dogs, or so he told himself. Still, he found himself sighing and brushing by them.

“Therion? Where’re you goin’?”

“To buy a stupid hubcap for the back of the truck,” he replied tersely, “since we don’t want the supplies to get rained on. Go get Olberic from the beach and let him know we’re heading out afterward.”

He was going to regret this later, and he knew it. He heard the girl - _Tressa,_ she said, but he was going to call her “gremlin” from now on - whoop and holler in excitement, babbling at Alfyn about all the “exciting adventures” they were about to have. 

_Anything to get that idiot distracted enough that’ll get him back to normal so I can finish my job,_ he justified, albeit poorly - but it would work for now.


	11. an interlude

Meadow ran smoother now. Her clutch pedal didn’t jam whenever Alfyn applied a smidge too much pressure, and the gears actually shifted from second to third without that weird _clunking_ noise. Mechanics might very well be just magicians in disguise, able to rectify rusted machines working well beyond their intended expiration date. Even the windows rolled down without getting stuck. His arm draped out the opened window, catching the air between his outspread fingers, while whistling alongside the “oldies tune” (as Tressa so called it) playing on the radio.

He felt - well. He wasn’t quite sure. The sun was shining, the ocean was calm, the roads smooth, and the company delightful. Meadow chugged along, her engine humming like Nina whenever she went frog-hunting. (“Here, froggy froggy froggy!”) When they pulled over for a quick break, the apples tasted sweet, and the pastries from Mrs. Dimpleton still hadn’t lost their charm. He leaned against Meadow’s hood, head tilted up toward the sky.

One year since she died, as of today.

He exhaled slowly. The twinge of sadness seeped into the otherwise somewhat decent day. He watched Tressa kick water at Kit, who laughed and used his hands to engage a counterattack. Olberic completed his stretches, the telltale _snap snap_ of aging bones popping with every controlled movement.

Beside Alfyn, Therion razed the apple in his hands to its core.

“You’re _quiet._ ”

The comment raised Alfyn’s eyebrows. “Thought you preferred that?”

“It’s unnerving. You talk about this that and the other until my ears bleed. I seriously don’t know how I haven’t ejected myself from the passenger seat yet.” He inspected the apple’s core and picked at the seeds. “Feels like a bad omen, is all.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the type t’believe in omens, Therion.”

The seeds began scattering around their feet and bounced away to unknown destinations. “Given my life and lack of good karma, I need all the luck I can get. So.” He pushed himself off the truck and hurled the core behind them. “I need you to be a quack, not some - I don’t know, _not-_ quack. Talk about, like. Stupid fishing stories or whatever. I don’t care.”

“Ain’t ya get your fill from Tressa?” Alfyn laughed. “M’sure she could babble ‘bout that there Mr. Leon the Legend. Still can’t believe he was some badass punk back in his day. Sheesh, that ain’t a lifestyle for the faint of heart, but it be pretty damn cool.”

“One, no, I don’t ‘get my fill’ from that nut. I still can’t believe you somehow roped another person into this.”

“Hey, I ain’t done no ropin’, she wanted in ‘erself after I told ‘er what we’ve been doin’.”

“Two.” Therion spared a quick glance at Alfyn before folding his arms across his chest. “She’s not you, and we’re talking about you.”

Silence. Alfyn found himself staring at Therion, brow furrowed. With him, it was always listening between his words, always plucking out meaning by what he didn’t say. Therion wanted him to talk. Therion wanted _Alfyn_ to talk, because Alfyn had been oddly quiet - because… A lightbulb flipped on in Alfyn’s head. 

Because Therion was _worrying_ over him. Because Therion realized - Therion _noticed_ \- that Alfyn wasn’t his usual self.

Of course, Alfyn wouldn’t call him out on that, because if he did Therion would immediately deny it and mutter something about “quacks and their nonsense assumptions as stupid as their fake medicines” or some iteration thereof. For someone so insistent on projecting an air of “I don’t really care about other people,” Therion - for all his prickly comebacks - really, really failed at not caring. The thought cracked a smile on Alfyn’s face as he shifted his gaze toward the ocean, where Tressa and Kit were meandering away from in their excitable chatter.

It was nice. 

“I’ll be fine,” he replied. 

A beat. “It doesn’t matter if you will be or won’t be,” Therion muttered, pulling up that ratted scarf he seemingly couldn’t be parted with. “I just want to get to Noblecourt without problems. That’s all.”

“Sure.” Alfyn grinned, nudged Therion’s shoulder, and then opened the driver’s side door. “But yer ain’t able to take it back now, just so ya know.”

“Take… what back.”

“Me tellin’ my _many_ fishin’ stories,” Alfyn answered in a sing-song voice, and the flash of immediate regret crossing Therion’s face was priceless. 


	12. glove box

When he brought it up, they were on their first official fishing trip. 

She packed his favorites: raw carrot sticks, convenience store beef jerky, lemon drops, and even some soda pop. The cooler overflowed with ice, spilling around his feet when he grabbed a can with his pudgy eight-year-old fingers. They came to this river many trips before, but he wouldn’t be watching this time - he would cast the line, feel the twitch of the rod when the bite came, reel in the catch. The snows thawed and left the waters a tad higher than usual.

“It be a great time for catchin’ smelts,” she said, plucking a piece of tall grass and wedging it between her teeth. “See them there gentlemen standin’ on that rock-bar out toward the center? They got just nets ‘cause they be so easy to nab right ‘bout now.”

He settled on the camping chair she unfolded for him, watching her open up her own to his left. In the sun, her pleated hair glistened bronze, washing out the hints of silver. The cooler sat between them, and, after digging through it for a few seconds, she cracked open one of her cheap beers. It hissed and startled the squirrels nearby, their bushy tails disappearing into the thickets.

“Ma?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Can I tell ya somethin’?” He fidgeted with the can’s aluminum tab, flicking it for the hollow sound to fill the fleeting silences. The two men in the distance filled another bucket of the coveted smelts. 

“Course ya can. Ya can tell me anythin’.”

“Do ya promise you ain’t gonna hate me?”

“Have ya killed someone?”

He shook his head rapidly. “No!”

“Shucks, an’ here I thought we were gonna go buryin’ bodies together. I know a few good places.” She snapped her fingers and grinned her toothy smile, revealing the large gap between her two front teeth. Then, a laugh: “Don’t be giving me that look! I’m yankin’ yer tail. Here, you talk, an’ I’ll thread yer hook, yeah?”

Having her attention somewhat distracted eased the building pressure churning in his stomach. He squeezed the can. “Um,” he tried, eying the worm wriggling between her forefinger and thumb. “It’s just - I mean - there be, um.”

“Sweet child of mine.” She leaned forward in her seat, eyes softening as she offered the fishing rod. “Y’know, I gave birth to you a good ol’ eight years back, ‘member? An’ when I got pregnant with ya, I told myself somethin’ I ain’t never gonna forget.”

“Whazzat?”

She placed the rod in his hands.

“I will never,” she said with such stunning clarity that, even as the minute details of the memories faded over the years, every syllable and cadence of her voice replayed the exact same way each time, “never _ever_ stop lovin’ you. You could kill the gods fer all I care, an’ you’ll still be mine flesh an’ blood. No matter what you do, no matter who ya be - I am an’ always will be yer Ma, who will embarrass the heck outta ya in front of yer crush an’ share yer baby pictures at the most inconvenient times possible. Got that?”

His vision swam. The rod shook in his hands. He swallowed hard, wiped tears and snot on his sleeve, and nodded several times. “Promise?” he asked, voice fainter than the strutting hoofs of a cautious deer’s.

She squeezed his shoulder.

“Promise.”

“Even if,” he sniffed and tried again, “even if I wanna be called ‘Alfyn?’”

She blinked. Stared. Laughed.

“I was wonderin’ why ya were lookin’ at that baby names book instead of yer comics in the bookstore last weekend! Sheesh, didja just open the first page an’ picked one that sounded coolest?”

“It means _wolf,_ ” he replied, indignant, yet so terribly, wonderfully relieved. “An’ it _is_ cool. Zeph said so.”

“Ya look more like one of them moose than a wolf, kiddo. All awkward limbs an’ always bumpin’ into things. How ‘bout Clover? Feels like you were born under an unlucky star, so ya need all the luck ya can get.” She nudged him playfully.

He gave her a hard stare, lips pursed in childish defiance. “I ain’t wanna be _Clover Greengrass!_ That’s _lame!_ ”

“Middle name, then,” she decided. “Alfyn it be. Next time we be in Saintsbridge, remind me to stop by the courthouse, yeah? We’ll get all the paperwork to make it all official an’ whatnot. I know,” she mirrored him and stuck out her own tongue, “icky as heck, but s’how it be. Don’t ya worry, though, it won’t take too long. I think. An’ as a reward, how ‘bout gettin’ ya a haircut, eh?”

“Howdy!” The two men sloshed through knee-high waters in their approach to the shoreline. The scrawny one hoisted the buckets while the plump one lugged their nets. His Ma gave them a two-fingered salute. The scrawny one smiled: “Good day for fishin’, eh ladies?”

Alfyn stiffened, but his Ma, with all the charms of a toughened woman from the sticks, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and replied:

“Sure be. Teachin’ my son ‘ere how to fish. Give us some of yer luck, will ya?”

It’s the story he never shared - and his most favorite of all.

Some just be for yourself.

***

( _I miss ya, Ma. I miss ya so damn much._ )

***

In the rearview mirror, Therion’s expression shifting from “mildly displeased” to “please just throw me into the ocean” revealed just how enthralling Alfyn’s fishing escapades proved to be. His forehead pressed against the glass of the back window, his lone eye rolling so hard Alfyn wondered if his pupil would ever return.

“Yessirree,” he continued undeterred, resulting in yet another bang of Therion’s forehead against the glass in his ever-growing regret, “it been no _fish,_ but a fifteen-stick-tall telephone pole! Ain’t sure how in the seven hells it ended up in that there pond in the middle of frick’s all nowhere, but if I learned anythin’ ‘bout the ooky-spooky shit, yer to never question it. Took a whole whoppin’ twenty minutes to get the damn thing out.”

“How the heck did your rod manage to hook it in the first place?” Tressa leaned forward into the space between Alfyn and Olberic, her eyes glittering in excitement. “I thought you said you were a doctor, not a professional weight-lifter! Aren’t those things _heavy?”_

“A telephone pole,” Kit said, chin tucked as his brow furrowed, “in the middle of nowhere you say? You were what, ten trees from town? Maybe a civilization up and vanished there too - you think it’d be in the news?”

“Given the Riverland climate,” Olberic interjected, his gaze never once moving from its perpetual stare forward, “I believe a moose may have rammed into it and carried it some distance with its antlers. They are rather intimidating creatures.”

“Kill me,” Therion groaned, punctuated with another thud of his forehead, “just, take one of those damn antlers, beat me over the head with it.”

Since their little pit-stop near a “hidden gem” of a beach (per Tressa), Alfyn’s downcast mood receded like the tide. The day still lingered, the pain still fresh, but recounting the many stories from Clearbrook eased the sting. His Ma would want that. He knew that. She bragged all the time down at the bar, voice louder than the barkeep’s beloved jukebox belting out hits from twenty years back. It was the least he could do to honor her in some way or another.

The truck hummed along; a steady and comfortable backdrop of white noise, almost as comforting as her humming drifting from the kitchen.

“Turn here,” Tressa said, jabbing her forefinger, “here, here! The Bifelphan Bridge will get us to the Flatlands in no ti - eh?”

He slowed the truck to a halt, head tilting to the side at the orange barriers sealing off the bridge’s entrance. A haggard construction worker, donning a screaming bright-yellow vest and a hardhat, meandered over to the driver’s side window.

“Howdy,” Alfyn said, leaning back in his seat. “Somethin’ up?”

“Deepest apologies.” The poor guy sweated up a storm in his uniform, cheeks splotched red and sunburned. “A ship with too tall a mast tried sailing under the bridge and - well, there’s a whole ton of debris in the road. We’re doing our best to get it removed, but it’s gonna take awhile and is unsafe to drive on right now.”

“Shucks.” Alfyn bit his bottom lip. “We came three hours west of ‘ere, any idea when it’ll get cleared up? We kinda have to get to the Flatlands.”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest. But,” the worker pointed east, “keep following CL East and it’ll take you half an hour to hit Goldshore. Lovely little city, great for sightseeing if you want to take a pitstop. We’re so sorry for the inconvenience.”

“This reminds me of those unnecessary roadblocks in Catchemsters Purple,” Kit whispered.

“Oh my gosh, _Catchemsters,_ I haven’t played that in _years,_ ” Tressa whispered back. “Wait, you had purple? I had yellow! Shoot, and I needed to trade Tickletin to get it to evolve, where _were_ you in my life?”

Sheesh, they were up to new colors for those games? Zeph played them until dawn whenever a new release came out, muffled bleeps and bloops emitting from the blankets. He shook his head. “Be any other way to get to Noblecourt by any chance?”

“This here’s the only bridge to cross since the Shorecourt Bridge hasn’t reached completion yet. Plus, you just missed the ferry porting at Goldshore by twenty minutes or so, otherwise I’d tell you to take that instead.”

“So soon?” Tressa tilted her head. “I thought they had one go out every hour ‘til midnight during weekdays.”

“Well,” the construction worker sucked air through his teeth and furrowed his brow, “truth be told, Goldshore’s got their hands full with a bad strain of the flu right now. They’ve limited service to try and contain the spread, since, you know, Noblecourt’s average age is fifty plus and their hospital’s lost funding since Mayor Azelhart passed. Try and be careful if you decide to head that way, yeah?”

Bad flu, eh? Alfyn quirked an eyebrow, feeling the call of destiny beckon him to put Meadow in reverse and head east. Maybe he could lend a hand somehow. He glanced at the rearview mirror, catching Therion staring back at the glass with a knowing frown on his face. He could hear him now: _Whatever, but as soon as this bridge reopens, we’re crossing it to get where we need to. Got it? Any longer and I’ll hitch a ride with someone else._

Still, he should ask. “Any objections stoppin’ for a little bit at Goldshore?” 

“I still have ample time to arrive at Victor’s Hollow,” Olberic said, nodding once. “Besides which, I feel as though there is no other choice in the matter.”

“Goldshore’s got a haunted cathedral,” Kit added, all but bouncing in his seat. “They say a woman wearing all black walks the halls, and she doesn’t have a _face._ We should see if it’s real!”

“Are you crazy!” Tressa whipped her head towards him, gawking. “She’ll tear your face off and wear it as a mask! No thank you! We should check out the market instead if it’s open. Since they’re close to Grandport, they get a lot of passing salesfolk coming through, since Goldshore’s as wealthy as, well, tons and _tons_ of gold!”

“Don’t care,” said Therion, definitely irked that his job was put off yet another day. “Olberic’s right. Don’t have a choice.”

***

Driving on Coastland roads made Alfyn wonder what exactly the Riverland tax dollars were going towards to have such lackluster streets in comparison. Then again, the roads in the Sunlands and Highlands fared much worse, so maybe he shouldn’t complain on Meadow’s behalf. Still, the fact that he saw _other vehicles_ driving by with shiny paint jobs and clean engines spoke volumes of where different districts' priorities lied. They hardly saw any cars thus far, usually once every four hours or so, but the Coastlands hustled and bustled like packs of deer scouring for food.

And Goldshore. Goldshore! He thought Saintsbridge, with all its stunning bridges and wondrous falls cascading underneath footpaths, was a large and affluent city. But Goldshore, with its glittering jewels of the seas in the backdrop to tastefully accent the gorgeous mansions overlooking cliffs, burst at the seams with vibrancies and demanded all to pay attention. Even the hotel they parked at oozed with classy charm.

But most impressively was the myriad public art displays. Statues carved from marble adorned the city’s center square, one depicting a woman hoisting a multitude of archaic weapons. At her feet, spickets shot water to cascade down the ivory steps leading into a rounded fountain.

“Winnehild,” Alfyn read off the plaque, “the Warbringer, She who Rises, She who Conquers, and She who Shelters. Huh. Ain’t never heard of ‘er before, ’cept for the moon.”

A telltale munch came from his left. 

“She’s one of the legendary four,” Therion said, sitting on the fountain’s ledge and stretching his legs from their long drive. The apple sported a bruise, but it didn’t deter him from taking another bite. “Winnehild. Steorra. Dreisang. Balogar. They pretty much led the rebellion against the Dark God in the War for the Stars.”

“Ya really don’t seem to be the type to have interest in myths, Therion. Surprises me every time.”

He shrugged. “I don’t. My dad used to tell me about them all the time when I was a kid.” A pause. He rotated the half-eaten apple in his hands and titled his head away. 

It took a beat, but Alfyn realized what happened a moment later and decided to seize the opportunity: “Your dad?”

Risky territory, but for the first time in their handful of days, Alfyn spotted a glimpse into the life and times of one Therion Insert-Last-Name. Gods, he didn’t even know his _last name,_ and here he is, blathering about this, that, and the other like his life story is a front page news story. Therion wasn’t keen on sharing details, he knew that much. But the very utterance of Therion’s father had to mean something, right? That they were slowly but surely becoming friends?

He hoped so. Gods, he hoped so. 

Therion weighed his options between munches, then, after a swallow, said: “Yeah, my dad. He died when I was young.”

“Oh. Shucks. I’m sorry, Therion.”

“It’s whatever.” Another shrug. “Life goes on, with or without you.”

“But,” Alfyn’s brow furrowed, “I can still be sorry, y’know? Yer pops clearly cared about ya, sharin’ stories with ya, teachin’ ya cool things. Sure, life goes on, but it sucks when it’s without people you love, yeah?”

A longer pause, then a huff. “Weren’t you supposed to be playing doctor and figuring out what’s going on with this flu thing?” Therion rose to his feet and tossed the apple’s remains into a waste bin. “You don’t have a lot of time to kill.” 

Shoot, he messed up somehow. Therion was growing comfortable, but not _that_ comfortable. Like a stray cat, you had to feed them food for weeks before they allowed a single pat on the head. But Therion wasn’t a cat, obviously; he was another person with feelings, with hopes, with dreams - even if he exuded an attitude of swearing all those off. Alfyn needed to be more delicate in the future. He nodded to himself, and Therion frowned.

“Earth to quack, are you having another weird conversation with yourself? Did you hear me? Flu strain. Focus.”

“Sheesh, yer real pushy, ain’tcha?” Alfyn laughed and nudged him. “M’workin’ on it, but I gotta get some more information to see what I be dealin’ with.”

“Knowing you, that won’t be hard to get your hands on, Mr. Befriends-All-Who-Breathes. Let’s go.”

“You’re comin’ with?”

“No one else is around to babysit to make sure you don’t do something stupid again.”

Kit and Tressa, in their fantastic duo of enthusiasm, pulled poor Olberic along earlier toward either the haunted cathedral or the marketplace. Therion refused to be pulled into their antics - “No,” he said, even with Kit’s best puppy-dog eyes - and for some reason decided that _Alfyn’s_ antics were more manageable. Given the past few days, Alfyn wagered that checking out a spooky ghost story might be less stressful than wherever this flu would lead him.

Man, his body still hurt. The back of his poor noggin sported a lovely shade of blue and purple from when Tressa ran into him, and his lack of sleep didn’t help matters much. At least the nap helped a little. He needed it to keep up with their new travel companion’s infectious energy.

“Can’t believe her parents just let ‘er go,” he mused.

“Who, the so-called Orstagram star weirdo?”

“Orsta-what’s-it?”

“You - never mind, of course you don’t know. She’s an adult, as she’s so keen to remind us. She’s allowed to do whatever she wants.” 

“Still, ain’t she said it be her first time out in the world? I think if I were a parent, I’d be scared shitless lettin’ my flesh an’ blood hitchin’ a ride with a buncha strangers I ain’t know. Y’know? Especially with a buncha weird guys. I mean, not that we’re _bad_ or nothin’,” he waved his hands, “but like, how would they know, y’know?”

“I’m going to start taking shots every time you say ‘y’know.’” 

“Shucks, I sure do say that a lot, sorry.”

Therion shook his head. “It’s not your concern anyways. They’re not the ones traveling with us, she is. And she clearly likes you, so she trusts you. You did her a dumb favor by almost getting your hide skinned. It’s how people work. You’re stressing over nothing.”

“I guess, yeah. Thanks, Therion.”

“Thanks?”

“For reassurin’ me.”

He gave Alfyn a quizzical look before readjusting his scarf. “Whatever you say.”

Not many locals milled about in town. Usually, nearing dinnertime, folks went out wining and dining - but many restaurants already closed, printed signs saying “Due to staff sickness, we will be closed until further notice.” It was eerie, a rich and luscious city possessed by a dreadful quiet. Even with the warm temperatures, Goldshore’s beaches sported nothing but birds and roaming crabs and - he squinted - and one little girl not wearing shoes.

Huh.

He turned and walked down the concrete steps leading to the beach. An immense pile of shells stacked high sat beside her as her tiny fingers plucked and discarded fragments. She looked no older than ten. Did her shoes get washed away by the ocean?

“Not my first choice of informant, but she’ll do.” Therion folded his arms across his chest. It was amusing, how seriously he took this despite definitely and totally not caring at all, nosirree. Alfyn hid a smile. 

“Do ya not like kids?”

“They’re fine if they don’t get in my way.”

Alfyn let out a small laugh and readjusted his bag before meandering toward her. She didn’t even look up from her persistent shell-searching as he approached. Her hair ribbon looked tattered and struggled to keep the ponytail up.

“Heya champ,” he said, squatting down to her level. “Find anythin’ pretty?”

“Lotsa pretty shells if you know where to look, mister.” She gestured to her miniature mountain. “You looking for shells too?”

“Nah, can’t say I’m an expert in that department none. I’m just a practicin’ doctor.”

Her wary face lit up like fireflies dancing during Aeber’s Moon. “Didja say a _doctor,_ mister? But,” she frowned, “where’s your white coat? Don’t doctors wear white?”

“I kinda take a likin’ to green more than white. White don’t suit me.” He scratched the back of his head, somewhat self-conscious of her pressing stare. “I ain’t from ‘round here, but I heard that there’s some kinda flu goin’ on?” 

“Everyone’s sick really bad,” she said, head drooping. “My older sis is sick, too. Mum doesn’t know what to do - the _libarby’s_ closed, so I can’t sell seashell necklaces on the _Anternet_ to help get medicine.”

Whoa, a little entrepreneur already! Tressa would undoubtedly want to take a look at her site. The Internet really was something magical, and Alfyn hardly used it except for submitting papers online for college. He remembered the late nights at Zeph’s, the sounds of keyboard clacks and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen. 

(“Alf,” Zeph whined, sprawled out on the kitchen table, “why the hell did I convince myself uni was a good idea again?”)

He pushed the memory aside. _Focus._ “Well,” he said, rising, “if ya ain’t mind, I can come an’ take a look at your sister an’ see if I can get her all better.”

She hesitated. “I don’t got any money.”

“Pssh, no need to stress ‘bout _that._ Money ain’t the be-all-end-all of the world. I’m a doctor, not a banker.” He grinned. “Name’s Alfyn. What’s yours?”

The crash of waves almost smothered her reply: “Ellen.”

“Well, El! If ya wanna show me the way, we can get your big sis as right as rain. Oh, but don’t be forgettin’ your shells either. Here, my buddy Therion an’ I can help ya carry ‘em home.”

“What,” Therion replied, his attempts at distancing himself from the conversation ruined in a single suggestion. 

“Sheesh, look how many she’s picked! Ya think her bag’ll fit ‘em all? C’mon, grumpy gills,” he grinned, “be a pal an’ help a young lady out.”

Therion’s impressive scowl deepened to depths never ventured before, but after glancing at Ellen’s furrowed brow of concern, he clicked his tongue and bent down to gather her collection. The shells jingled together in the makeshift pocket of his poncho. If Alfyn squinted, he could see the flakes of embarrassment tickle Therion’s ears. 

“Lead the way,” he grumped.

The walk from the pristine beach and through the richest part of town all the way to what could be called the “wrong side of the tracks” was an interesting showcase of just how a city attempted to hide its less fortunate citizens. Wedged beyond the sprawling lawns and dazzling gated communities, the buildings grew more and more dilapidated the more they followed Ellen home. More concerningly, people - in spite of the bad flu - were outside waiting in lines at what appeared to be the local food bank. 

“Reminds me of Bolderfall.”

“Muh?” Alfyn glanced at Therion, who eyed the alarmingly close-together huddled folks waiting to get something to eat. “Bolderfall?”

“The disparity,” he said quietly, lifting the corners of his poncho higher to secure Ellen’s shells from escaping. 

“I ain’t never seen somethin’ like it in the Riverlands before. Then again,” he rounded the corner after Ellen, “I s’pose the Riverlands ain’t that rich in the first place anyhow. Uh?”

Ellen toddled up a creaking set of wooden stairs leading the entrance of an… _interesting_ apartment complex. She yanked open the door without pressing the security keypad, which upon further inspection appeared broken. Weren’t landlords supposed to take care of those sorts of things? He gave Therion a look, who didn’t seem surprised. Well. Alfyn sighed and held open the door for him to head inside.

If the exterior looked shabby, then the interior certainly screamed in desperate need of tender love and care. Ellen with her sand-coated bare feet toed over beer cans and walked across unidentifiable stains embedded in tacky carpet. One of the hallway lights flickered, and an old man smoked in the hallway, eying the visitors with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. Ellen bowed her head to him in quick acknowledgment before scurrying toward the stairway. 

“Don’t do anything _funny,_ ” the old man got out between coughs, then took another long drag of his cigarette. The ashes scattered along the carpet to join the piles of others. “Them sisters are the only bright spot left in this dump.”

“No sir, we’re just here to help,” Alfyn reassured, smiling in an attempt to be friendly in the face of a thinly-veiled threat.

“Hn,” scoffed the old man, shaking his head, before squeaking open his apartment door and slamming it behind him. Only the smell of days’ old cigarette stench lingered behind him.

“Tough crowd, eh?” Alfyn hurried after Ellen, who waited at the base of the stairs.

“Just Mr. Anders,” she replied. “He don’t trust anybody. This way!”

They ascended four, five, _six_ flights of stairs, killing the remains of Alfyn’s knackered legs. Cripes, why not take an elevator? Then again - he glanced down at his boot as the aged wood squeaked beneath him - maaaaaybe trusting an elevator in this place was a bad idea. He wheezed at the top and made a mental note to commit more time toward upping his cardio game. Beside him, Therion looked nonplussed; but his nostrils flared with every heavy exhale, and his arms displayed faint tremors in them from playing as Ellen’s pack mule.

Ellen, however, clearly used to the hike, all but ran toward the door labelled 608. She twisted the knob several times, tongue sticking out, before the door swung open with a loud _clunk_ against the narrow entrance’s wall. 

_“Finally,_ ” Therion huffed under his breath. 

“Wishin’ ya went with Tressa after all?”

“Gods, no. Wishing I went to get a drink instead.”

 _Why didn’t ya?_ Alfyn wanted to ask, but Ellen waved her hand urging them to come in. He obliged, peeling off his boots near the door and stepping over the fat lump of a cat lying right in the middle of the hallway. The apartment was a familiar sight; unopened mail on the kitchen table, mounds of dirty dishes stacked on the lackluster counter space, a broken broom leaning against the trash can while the floor continued collecting crumbs. It reeked of sleepweed, sweet yet pungent. 

_Someone’s been self-medicatin’._

“Mumma!” Ellen called down another hallway. “Mumma, I got Flynn a doctor! He’s not wearing white ‘cause he likes green!”

“Huh. Didn’t know that’s all it took.” Therion smirked. He dumped the shell collection on the coffee table, already overflowing with them. “Maybe I should make a career change.”

“Ya can’t just _change clothes_ an’ have the magical powers that be gift ya with the skills to make medicine.” Alfyn snorted. “M’gonna check on the patient - ya should stay back, ‘cause we ain’t know just how contagious it be, y’know?”

“Another leaf to the ‘y’know’ jar,” Therion drawled behind him.

Something didn’t seem right the moment Alfyn followed Ellen down the hall and into the cramped bedroom. No coughs, no sniffles, no sneezes. Surely he would’ve heard at least _one_ of the three by now. Instead, when they arrived, another little girl sat on the edge of her mattress, legs swinging. Next to her, a frazzled-looking woman squawked.

“Ellen! What are you _doing,_ bringing strangers into the house!”

“He’s a doctor.” She nodded several times. “He can help Flynn!”

“Doctor in trainin’, sorry for the intrusion, ma’am.” He held up his hands. “Said I offer my services fer free, an’ I hear there’s a patient who might need me?”

“Gods give me _strength._ ” The woman pinched the bridge of her nose, the corners of her lips twitching. “Ellen, sweetie. I appreciate you looking out for Flynn, but we had a _reputable pharmacist_ stop by and give her medicine already.”

“Flynn’s all better?” Ellen perked up, and the room lit up with her smile. Flynn sipped at a carton of apple juice.

“Yes, dear. Now, what did I say about inviting scruffy-looking men into our home without _asking_ first?” The mother shot Alfyn a dirty look, which he interpreted to mean as _leave immediately before I call the cops._ She must’ve had bad experiences before. He scratched the back of his head and gave a slight bow.

“Well, if she be all better, then I guess my services ain’t needed, yeah?” He gave Ellen a thumbs’ up of reassurance. “But if ya need anythin’, just holler, ‘kay? We’ll be ‘round ‘til tomorrow mornin’.”

“I’m sorry, Alfyn.” Ellen shook her head. “I didn’t know she was all better. But thank you and your, um, friend for carrying my shells for me!” 

“No problem! Well,” he stepped backward into the hall, the mother growing more agitated each second he lingered, “stay healthy, y’hear?”

Ten seconds later, he and Therion stood outside the closed apartment door. 

“That was fast,” Therion commented.

“Not much to do when there ain’t be a problem.” Alfyn shrugged. “Somebody else fixed ‘er up. But if she was sick earlier this mornin’ an’ she’s _already_ feelin’ good again, then that tonic must be somethin’ else. Really wanna pick the local pharmacist’s brain ‘bout their methods. But it’s nice to know that someone be lookin’ out for these folks, even if they ain’t got the leaves to pay for expensive-ass meds.”

“...Mm.”

“But hey, if yer not doin’ nothin’, how ‘bout we get that drink you’ve been cravin’, yeah? On me.”

“Hah, ‘on you.’ Right. With what money?” Therion rolled his eye and brushed by him heading back toward the stairwell. “Thought you’d want to check on Kit and Tressa first to see if their ‘ghost hunting’ is going well.”

He gave a sheepish, nervous chuckle. “I mean - W-well - okay, but they got _Olberic,_ so they ain’t need me. I’d just, uh, get in the way, y’kn--uh, yeah! So!” He hooked an arm around Therion’s shoulders, who flinched but didn’t shove him away. “Drink! I’ve been wanting one all day myself.”

“Didn’t take you for a _chicken,_ quack. You scared of ghosts?”

“Can’t be scared of what ain’t real, Therion.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Who’s to say,” he batted Alfyn’s arm aside, “you aren’t standing next to one right now?”

“‘Cause they ain’t _real._ Duh.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, okay. So the hand on your shoulder must be my own hallucination. Got meds for that, quack?”

“The _what?!_ ” Alfyn squeaked and slapped at his own shoulder, panicked, before pausing and narrowing his eyes. For a fleeting second, Therion ducked his head, the back of his hand pressed to his lips, a faint _quake_ in his shoulders, and a sound that could be suspiciously labelled as _genuine laughter_ emanated from him. Alfyn’s call-out died on his tongue, eyes widening a fraction upon the realization of, _Oh._

_He laughed. I ain’t imagined that, right?_

_That’s the first time I ever heard it, ain’t it?_

Something warm nestled in Alfyn’s chest, familiar and -

( _Shit,_ Alfyn thought, seeing Zeph smile at something now long forgotten, _I’m in love with him._ )

\- mildly horrifying. He swallowed hard. _Quit that,_ he told himself, _yer still just gettin’ over that. Don’t get confused and mistake important feelings._

“You coming or what?” Therion frowned, foot tapping. “I’m not holding open the door all damn day.”

“Yeah,” Alfyn managed, trailing behind him and wiping the beading sweat off his brow, “I be comin’, I be comin’.”


	13. ventilation

(When he first read it, oh, how many years back - in times hardly remembered except in reimaginings of what may have been - the sentence lingered with him. The text’s name, the story - none of that mattered. But the sentence, so trite in execution, so overwrought with cliché to convey some hapless and forgettable tragedy, lingered like molded sour bread on his tongue. 

_The light faded from his eyes -_ or, more concisely: _The light faded._

Light never blinked out suddenly, nor existed for eternity. It faded, slowly, painstakingly so. Splash water upon a flame, and little flickers sputter in desperation to keep alit. Flick off the gas lamp in a room, and the bulb retains a dulled glow encased in glass. Cover the moon with a blanket of clouds, watch the comets rain from the skies, stab a man in vengeance and watch the light fade from his eyes. 

One couldn’t depend on light - even if he begged for it. He learned that universal truth in the darkest voids in which no author with every word upon their fingertips could ever convey. Darkness remained the constant, an inevitability, a guarantee. In it, one could perhaps find comfort; a promise to be upheld, a swath of black to cradle mankind’s eventual downfall in a sweet, cold embrace.

In it, he found screaming. So much screaming. In suspended animation, your throat does not bleed, so your voice does not give way to a harsh rasp. Instead, the pitch, the cadence, the tremors - they all remained the same, forever, and ever, and ever - but. But, there was a secondary truth, one so misunderstood despite being upheld as “common sense” those without an ounce of intellect purported to be more important to possess.

Forever didn’t exist.

The void crumpled. In a splice between seconds, it just ceased to be, purging him on the outskirts of spiraling plain tucked away within the mountains. The scream ceased, and he found himself - he found himself _breathing,_ which by all accounts should not be possible, given his prior demise. _She_ made certain of that. _She_ ensured to snuff out his light without giving him a chance to fulfill his duty.

“Mattias.”

The name spilled from the lips of a cracked skull dressed for a funeral. The creature approached, black locks curled and more beautiful than a maiden’s on her wedding day spilling around its exposed collarbones. It walked three paces, stopped, and unfurled its gnarled hands. From them spilled roaches. They scattered to escape the coming dawn, burrowing beneath stones and wriggling over his body like an obstacle in their way of salvation.

“Welcome back,” it said, “Mattias.”

“We failed,” he said first, a cacophony of thoughts shrieking in unison for his attention. “I - the Flame, and - the _dark._ What -”

“Hush, my child.” It knelt before him, hollowed eye sockets peering into the gaping emptiness where his soul may have once existed. “We did not fail. It’s all right.”

Overhead, the storm clouds dissipated, leaving brightening streaks of blue in their wake. It smelled - it smelled _wonderful,_ in earnest. The void stank of nothing. “All right?” he echoed. “What about _any_ of this is ‘all right?’”

“It was not the end, nor our end,” it said. It twirled a curl around its knobby forefinger. “Rather, a beginning of _their_ end.”

“I do not _understand,_ ” he vented, fingernails digging into mud, teeth clenching. “It most certainly _felt_ like a conclusion. Why must there still be secrets between us when I have cast aside all I had faith in for _you?_ You and your,” he spat on the ground, “ _promises._ I did all I could, and still, the light -”

 _The light refused to die._ Another sentence in a repertoire of many, conjured from his own quilled pen when he fared himself to be a writer one day. _She_ stood in his path, white dress dyed in fleeting blues from Aelfric’s blessings, determination and belief blazing in her irises. He remembered watching the orange hues of twilight mingling with her spells, weaving a magic too powerful for him to stop.

“I was supposed to be the _savior,_ ” he said at last, “and instead, I became your _pawn._ ”

The creature paused. A centipede wriggled out from its nostril and fell to the ground. 

“Hold onto it,” it said. “This rage. It will be necessary for the path ahead.”

“What _path?_ Where even - where is there to go from _nothingness?_ I do not wish to go back _there_ again, thank you oh so very much.”

“No, of course not. That darkness was very unkind to you. To me. To _us._ But there _is_ a warmth trapped within, something hidden by those that reign the damnable heavens.” It rose to its feet. “ _They_ refuse to accept it. They refuse to even _look._ You took one glimpse, and look what they _did_ to you. Did any of those fiends extend a hand to help you?”

“You did not help me either. Where _were_ you when death claimed me?”

“Then tell me, child.” It folded its arms across its ribcage. “How are you here? How do you breathe? Look around, and tell me who you see.” Silence passed, and it nodded once. “Right. _Father_ returned you here. It took almost a thousand years, and I am sorry. There is only so much one can do in death. But,” it held out its hand, “nothing lasts forever. Right, Mattias?”

Wet. His face grew wet, and his desperate hand reached for the bones held out to him. He hugged it and wept. His god. _Their_ one, true god, the one who saved him when all others turned their backs. He did not believe in love, but, by the stars, he believed in his god, the one who returned him where he belonged: to the _true_ light.

“You are still a savior, Mattias. All you have done in our name - you have done so, _so_ well. The lost souls, they all needed a shepherd.” The bones stroked his matted hair. “You are that shepherd, and will _continue_ to be. We are still so, so close to everything you so yearned for. To everything _we_ yearned for. And now,” it looked back, and it - she - smiled, a face brimming with charming youth and rosy cheeks, “it is time at last.”

He wiped his face on his tattered sleeve and sniffed. “What,” he asked, “do I need to do?”

“You have already done so much, my child.” Her brow furrowed in concern, palms pressing against his jaw. “And you are so, so tired. Let’s give you the gift of reprieve, and then, we will grant your _new_ wish.”

“My,” he whispered, “new wish.”

“This world is unfair, and cruel.” A butterfly colored emerald and mauve rested upon her shoulder. “In our new dream, we must make things just. You have suffered much at _their_ hands. I will guide you to the path,” she smiled as a black bird’s talons sank into the butterfly, taking it away, “that will seal them within those gates for a thousand years, plus some. One, by one, by one.”

“It will never be enough.”

“No, it will not be, my child. Much like how slaying my uncles and aunts won’t be enough, either. What they have done _cannot_ be forgiven. But justice always finds a way. And on this day,” she peered toward the horizon, squinting at the coming sun, “it has.”)

It had.

He stood in the halls of the old Church of the Sacred Flame. Even after passing ages, the old order still infected Orsterra like a festering bile beneath one’s skin. Its grip on humanity refused to lessen, lingering akin to the stench of mead on an alcoholic. He paced beneath its glittering golden dome, catching whispers amidst the clergy eying their latest (and healthy) guest. 

He remembered. The recycled and repurposed souls, regurgitated into an amalgamation of what Orsterra once was but with many gaping holes in its recreation, didn’t. Those once familiar in his 115-year pilgrimage on the continent glimpsed upon him with nary a flicker of recognition.

This alone snared their plans an advantage. If no one but himself recalled what occurred lifetimes ago, then -

The swinging arched doors, creaking with weight and age, opened. Sunset beamed through the door, unveiling a feathered cap and a billowing dress powered forth with combat boots. An interesting - if not damning - combination for someone who yearned to be seen. Her cheeks puffed with a peculiar determination, followed by a blonde young man and - his eyes narrowed - that _warrior._ Two of the eight antitheses to all that is good and great.

He would not allow them to stop him this time. He steeled himself, hands clenched into fists, and readied to approach with an infinite of witty comebacks he prepared in the dark in his fantasies where he won all those years ago -

“Gooooood afternoon, my chippy chipmunks!”

What.

The girl angled her phone high, making a “V” with her fingers over her right eye as she winked. “As all you lovely followers of mine know,” she rambled on, kicking her feet high with each step, “today’s the first day of the ‘TBA,’ or ‘Tressa’s Big Adventure!’ And for our first-ever video diary entry, me and my buddies Kit-Kat and Olby are here at Goldshore’s Church of the Sacred Flame!”

“Kit-Kat?” the blonde repeated.

“Am I Olby?” the warrior inquired.

Of course. Of course the sinners forgot their sins. While he repented for a near eternity, these daft, foolish imbeciles spurned forth from Aelfric’s impudent seed walked around without a care in the damn world. No, no - he took in a slow, deliberate breath - he needed to remain calm. All would fall as it should, in due time. Yes, they may walk him by with all but a passing glance in his direction with no recollection of who he might be, but that was his precious _advantage._

They believed this was their first time being here, after all. Mattias knew better. However - he frowned somewhat - _she_ was not among them this time. 

(“The flow of a repeating world, as all manners that deal with time, runs with risks.” She craned her neck skyward. “Yet _they_ still enacted it anyhow to try and course-correct destiny. So you cannot and should not expect events to flow the same. Use those memories as a guideline, but not as set in stone.”

“Course-correct?”

“They won, technically speaking,” she said with a smile. “Albeit with an outcome less than desirable. Father made certain of that. As such, like the prideful perfectionists are, they see their winnings as a total loss.”

“Then they’re taking a large risk just to make the end-result the epitome of perfection.”

“Just so. Cocky like always. And you know what they say of fools who aim for the sun, no?” She plucked a dandelion and blew, watching the seeds scatter. “They are asking to get _burned.”_ )

He watched the plucky girl spin on her heel, aiming her phone at her travel companions. Who was the blonde lad? Mattias didn’t recount him from _any_ of his travels, so perhaps he was an anomaly. If that was the case, he needed to know just who exactly he was up against. The towering man alone was enough to halt him from simply just luring that pipsqueak somewhere and ridding her off the planet for good. Of course, he wasn’t one for getting his hands too filthy - plus, he didn’t need any other variables turning out to be a _problem._

Here was not the opportunity to approach. His brow furrowed. Maybe later, then - at a bar, perhaps. Considering the flu going around, there was really only one place they _could_ go. And then he simply needed to rely on old tricks to turn the tides in his - in their - favor. He smiled to himself and gazed upon one of the church’s more prolific artworks, depicting Aelfric spearing the followers of the dark god with holy pillars.

They’d have to spare at least _one_ artist from the reckoning. After all, when this church became his, he’d need to do some redecorating.

“For the last time,” the girl huffed, her camera persona all but a memory, “I am _not_ scared of ghosts!”

“Suuuure you’re not, Ms. Trembleson.”

“It’s _Colzione,_ blondie!”

 _You should be,_ he thought, heading toward the church’s entrance. He ducked a smile behind his hand. _Who knows when they’ll be coming for you?_

***

Therion glanced at his phone.

“Ain’t remembered ya had one of those.”

“It’s a burner,” he replied, although this burner turned out to last longer than any other phone he ever pocketed. A new text message from that social media gremlin lit up his screen, complaining that “ghosts are HORRIBLE” and “tell alfy kits the WORST” and “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH PLS SEND ALF HERE ASAP I THINK SHE GOT HIM” and “oh nvm false alarm its just olby LOLOLOL my b” and on, and on, an _on_. He deleted them all. “And since someone _broke_ his, it’s the best way to keep in touch with your friends.”

“My friends be yer friends too, y’know.”

Hah. Well. Therion flagged the bartender and asked for a shot, upholding his promise. The alcohol burned down his throat as Alfyn watched. Hopefully he wouldn’t say “y’know” all night, because the last thing Therion needed was a hangover - especially if he could finally do his job tomorrow.

“What’re they sayin’? Anythin’ fun?”

“Something something Kit might’ve died something.” Therion shrugged. “Safe to say they won’t be joining us for some time.”

“Wait - _died?_ ”

“Kidding. I’m not that lucky.” 

“ _Therion,_ ” Alfyn chastised, and Therion gave another shrug.

“If you want to know what’s really going on, get a new phone and have her whine at you until you give it to her to make her shut up.”

Thanks to the flu, not many locals entered the tucked-away bar wedged between the prissy rich bastards’ and the poor suckers’ territories. He was surprised the joint was even open, all things considered - but they had to pay rent through admirable means somehow. Whatever. More drinks for him. He eyed Alfyn thumbing the lip of his emptied mug, ready for a refill but uncertain if he should commit.

 _Just use the money I gave you, moron. That’s what it’s there for._ Still nothing. Sighing, Therion flagged the bartender again and jabbed a thumb at Alfyn’s empty glass.

“Oh,” Alfyn blinked, “uh. Thanks. Sorry, kinda zoned out there for a sec.”

“You’ve been doing that for most of the day.”

“Yeah? That obvious? Guess so. Ya already called me out on it earlier.” He took a hearty sip and set the mug down. “See, my Ma, she died a year ago today. S’kinda,” he swallowed hard, and Therion’s alarm bells of impending tears began shouting at him to run for the hills, “hard to think ‘bout.”

One year, huh. He took a well-timed sip. “Mm.” What else was there to say? “I’m sorry for your loss?” Right, like that would mean anything, coming from him. What did he know about people you cared about dropping dead? His early memories were too hazy to ascertain any emotional meaning from them about his father. His only friend ( _boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, partner_ ) didn’t die, per se, but by the _gods_ Therion hoped he did between now and then. Kind of. Somewhat. He ignored that train of thought in favor of reading the drink names written in chalk on the overhead board.

“I’ll be better come tomorrow, though. Ain’t no need to stress ‘bout that,” Alfyn continued. He stretched. “Speakin’ of, think we’ll make it to Noblecourt by then? Sheesh, took a long time, yeah? Sorry ‘bout that.”

“It’s whatever. The people I’m working for are dicks anyways. They can squirm for all I care.” 

“Yer bosses that mean?”

“They’re something.”

“Shucks. Why not work someplace else, then? M’sure anyone would wanna hire ya.”

“Not much of a choice.” He rapped his fingers against the counter, watching some man with long brown locks walk with too much grace through the door. The bell jingled his otherwise imperceptible arrival. Therion eyed him with slight interest. “But don’t bother asking why.” 

“No questions clause,” Alfyn said, nodding. “Don’t worry, wasn’t gonna.”

But he definitely wanted to. If there was something Alfyn didn’t know, he most certainly would yuck it up with every housewife across the planet until he did. Alfyn guzzled his fourth drink of the night and clicked his tongue.

“This shit _rocks,_ ” he said, setting his once-again empty glass down. “S’probably the best drink I ever had.”

“I get the feeling you say that every time you have a drink somewhere.”

Beside them, the new stranger chuckled, amused. “You surely can put them away.”

Oh no. Alfyn turned, a grin stretching from ear-to-ear at his newest soon-to-be buddy. There went the peace and moderate quiet, replaced with banter about anything under the damn sky. Therion rolled his eye and slouched over the bar counter, half-listening. Outside, the sun finally set, and the street lights flickered on. He should make sure to turn in early just in case they _did_ make it to Noblecourt without some other stupid interruption getting in his way. He rubbed his temples. Now that he thought that, there was no way in hell he was going to get what he wanted. The gods just loved to spite him.

“Aw, shucks, buddy.” Alfyn giggled. “Ya ain’t gotta.”

“No, I insist. On me.” The sound of glass sliding across the counter caught Therion’s ear, who frowned at the sight of yet another sloshing glass of cold, colorful backwoods pisswater in Alfyn’s hands. The stranger - _Matthew,_ the portion of his memory listening to the pair yik-yaking recalled - smiled, a peculiar twinkle in his eyes. “It’s not everyday I meet someone with such amazing stamina. Tell me, what is your secret?”

“Well -” 

Therion batted Alfyn’s hand and took the drink for himself. “Enough.” He was not about to deal with the quack being unable to drive in the morning because he couldn’t help himself. Before Alfyn could complain, he downed three-quarters of the raspberry-flavored concoction Matthew ordered for him. He winced. “Besides,” he said, _I am so gonna regret that, what the hell am I doing,_ “this isn’t your taste. You don’t like fruity.”

He pouted. On him, it looked ridiculous. Therion resisted the urge to snort. The Matthew fellow’s eyebrows lifted in surprise (and another indistinguishable emotion, one Therion could not place), as if impressed with his drinking capacity. Then, a laugh: “Sorry, I did not realize you had cut him off. That was rude of me.”

“S’fine, we just got an early mornin’ tomorrow. He’s bein’ my brain right now.” An arm wrapped itself around Therion’s neck. The motion grew comfortable as of late, no longer sending blaring alarm bells at the possibility of getting choked. Alfyn would never do that. The truth in that statement buzzed in his drunken stupor. Its assurance prompted him to relax further - or maybe that was the booze. See, this was why he hated drinking. It made him more - his brow furrowed in concentration to pluck out the correct word - _vulnerable._

Dammit.

“And as your brain,” he drawled, willing the wooziness to pass, “we’ve gotta start heading back to the hotel.” He furthered his intention by slamming both palms onto the counter and nearly knocking his stool onto the floor. The bartender raised an eyebrow, expression reading, _Those are meant to be drunk slow, moron._ Thanks for the belated memo. He yanked on Alfyn’s arm. “C’mon.”

This scene felt -

(“C’mon,” Darius whispered, pulling Therion closer by his scarf, “c’mon. Let’s go somewhere more… private.”)

“Sheesh.” Alfyn cocked a grin before giving an apologetic glance at Matthew. “Sorry to drink an’ run on ya, buddy. Maybe some other time, yeah? I’ll tell ya some good stories ‘bout the Riverlands.”

“I am looking forward to it,” replied Mr. Sunshine, bearing the charming smiles and pretty expressions fit for a conman. The hairs rose along the back of Therion’s neck. Yeah. Yeah, something was up with this guy - _sketchy,_ his thoughts provided, and he cosigned that assessment. “Safe travels, you two. May we meet again perhaps.”

If Therion learned anything in his tenure with well-spoken persons, it’s that he could trust them as far as he could throw them: not very far, unless dropped from a cliff. His current employer fell under that category. Yeah, Matthew reminded him of that gods-awful butler at the estate, smiling and one step ahead in some mental chess game Therion never agreed to. 

Then again, when had he ever agreed to anything willingly?

(“Okay,” he whispered back, giddy and with a heart pound-pound- _pounding_ painfully against his ribs, skin burning wherever Darius deigned to touch.)

“Whoa,” Alfyn said, pressing a steadying hand against the small of Therion’s back as they exited the bar, “slow down a little. You be wicked unsteady right now. Need a piggyback ride back?”

“Don’t even _think_ ‘bout it.” If the likes of Kit or his new partner-in-loud saw that, they would _never_ let that down. He had a reputation to uphold. He tottered heavily into Alfyn’s side. Acceptable. One foot in front of the other. Never again. “The hell was the alcohol content in that thing.”

“I ain’t sure. Maybe fifteen percent? Ya drank it _way_ too quick. I can whip ya up somethin’ for yer stomach if ya feel like yer gonna vom.” Between sentences, Therion felt his feet dangle in the air, warmth pressed hard against his chest. Wait. When did he - “I ain’t gonna let ya fall,” he continued. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this for Zeph countless times.”

Zeph. Zeph? Oh, right, the best friend, the one who got married or something. Therion closed his eye. Whenever Alfyn brought up this Zeph, his tone shifted into a mixture of warmth and an odd melancholy. A different melancholy whenever he talked about his dead mother, but a melancholy nonetheless. Alfyn hefted Therion more securely on his back. 

“Said don’t think about it,” he muttered. He felt _tired._

“Ya can scold me in the mornin’. I just want ya to _not_ walk into a telephone pole an’ break yer nose. It’d piss ya off if we became twinsies that way.” He laughed, rumbling through Therion’s body. “Wanna share the room with two beds? Olberic an’ the others can be in the other room so ya can sleep this shit off without bein’ interrupted.”

He made a motion he believed to be a nod. Consciousness seeped in and out during the trek from the tavern to the hotel. Something smelled like cut grass or - or maybe it was grapes, but it was _sweet,_ sickly sweet, and the bed too soft, and the room too warm, and the sound of seeds being crushed beneath wood too loud, and he dreamed in greens. Bad omens, the whole lot of it, and he flailed to sit up to hurl into the well-placed trash can set beside him.

“Easy,” someone - Alfyn - said. A hand rubbed his shoulders. “Think ya can stomach this? Might taste a lil sour, but it’ll do ya some good, promise.”

What time was it? Late, he hazarded a guess. He clutched the glass vial and downed it in one go, ignoring the tangy slog barreling down his throat. Moments passed. Alfyn removed the vial from Therion’s sluggish hands. The churning in his stomach eased, the roils receding, the sweat cooling. He peered at Alfyn, who gave him that stupid reassuring smile, one that actually _felt_ reassuring. Not good. None of this would end well, and he knew it, because if _last_ time was anything to go by, he should never fall for this trap again.

So he wouldn’t. He refused. 

“Guess you’re not much of a bad quack as I thought,” he mumbled despite himself.

Alfyn’s mouth made a little “o” shape in surprise. “Shucks, that be a _compliment_ I be hearin’? No wonder ya don’t like drinkin’ none too much. Let’s get ya to bed, yeah? Try an’ stay on yer side. Here, I’ll reinforce ya with extra pillows…”

The babbling brook of Greengrass became white noise in the haze of sleep. It coddled him, the bizarre _comfort_ settling in his bones, the way Alfyn tucked in the blankets, the soft hum of a quack who should be sleeping instead of taking care of some stranger - well, no longer strangers - he met only so many days ago. He must want something. But what? No matter how far Therion peered into the motives of his chauffeur, what should be murky waters were crystal clear.

The guy just wanted to help.

He couldn’t accept that as an answer. No one was that - that - that _charitable._ Not in real life, anyways. Everyone had a price. But Alfyn’s came at the cost of Therion’s companionship, alongside anyone else who decided to tag along. “Anyone else” was understandable. They all had stories to share, jokes to tell. Therion didn’t lack them himself, really, but he certainly didn’t like _sharing._ Sharing meant caring. Caring meant -

(“Didja really think,” said _Darius,_ back straight and sneer crooked, “I really cared ‘bout you even _once?_ ”)

His eye snapped open. Birds. He could hear birds, and morning seeped through the crack between the curtains. Alfyn snored like a jackhammer through the alarm, hand scratching his ass before rolling over and drooling on the pillow. 

Attractive.

The pain in his stomach prickled somewhat while he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. No headaches, no queasiness, no dry throat - just pins and needles. A side-effect maybe. Huh. He flexed his fingers, and stared at the mess of Alfyn’s bedhead. Inklings of a beard speckled his jawline. His busted nose wiggled, and the snoring grew worse. How the hell did Therion sleep through that? He shook his head and swatted the alarm off. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he nudged Alfyn’s shoulder once, twice. A few times.

A dopey, sleepy grin greeted him.

“Hey, Therion,” he said, voice still gravelly from sleep. He yawned. “Mornin’ already?”

An unpleasant burn trickled down the back of Therion’s neck. His hand retracted back to his side, and his gaze shifted to the makeshift workstation cluttered with dried herbs and tools. Oh. He looked back to Alfyn and frowned - a familiar expression, not dangerous, not teetering on the edge of a precipice he never wanted to be on ever again.

“Yeah,” he said at last. He scowled and scrunched up his face. “Go shower, you _reek._ ”

Alfyn’s smile widened, and the feeling of unease curling around his chest told Therion he already stood upon it.

Saintsbridge was falling down.


	14. rear-view mir r or

Tressa and Kit looked worse for wear while nibbling at their helpings of continental breakfast. Olberic, however, appeared well-rested and unaffected from their tryst at the Church of the Sacred Flame. The pictures on Tressa’s phone, smeared when running away from shadows, regaled a story of not courage, but rather the tale of employing proper intelligence to know when one was way over their head. Alfyn munched on his sesame bagel, humming as his thumb continued to swipe left, chortling at the shot of Kit doing his best impression of those creepy wax sculpture things captured mid-scream.

“Looks fun,” he said, grinning, and Tressa puffed her cheeks.

“It was _not_ fun. Not one bit!” She emphasized her immense displeasure with her fork’s pointed stab into a chocolate-chip pancake. “And it’s no thanks to Therion you didn’t come to our _rescue_ when things got hairy!”

Said-Therion did what Therion does best: shrug. “I’m not your messenger pigeon. And I’m also not the one who provoked the ‘dark spirits.’”

“I don’t like it when you have a point,” she groused, lips pursing. Her glare aimed daggers at Kit instead, who held up his empty plate as a shield. “It was all _your_ fault. ‘Let’s try asking her to come out!’ you said! ‘There’s no way she actually will,’ you said! And then you immediately bailed when the shadows started moving, you loser! You were gonna leave me and poor Olby to become her new face masks!”

Olberic sighed. How the poor man had the patience to handle their shenanigans, Alfyn could only guess. “It was just a member of the clergy who forgot her purse.”

“My point still stands!”

Sheesh, what companions they gathered. Alfyn laughed and handed the phone back to Tressa, whose endless tirade between chomps and bites berated Kit for his lackluster display of heroism. Kit tried his best to keep up, but somewhere in his defense, he decided to give up and eat instead. Wise choice. 

The weather report mentioned something about thunderstorms moving in from the east. Fortunately, their new hubcap would shield their goodies on their way to Noblecourt, which was all but a stone throw’s away at _last._ Alfyn tore a chunk of his bagel with his teeth and hummed in thought. Soon, Therion would be able to do the job he apparently disliked for bosses he loathed, then head back to wherever they were. He paused midchew. And after that? After that. He swallowed. Therion would be done, right? He’d no longer need a ride. 

So this was the halfway point, more or less. Huh. So quick, too. He stole a glance at Therion, who, after a feverish night of bad choices, actually seemed pretty well put-together. For his sake, Alfyn needed to know when to stop kicking drinks back like a cat grazing catnip. He was the designated driver after all. He should know better. Oh well. Lesson learned. Toast eaten, he raised an eyebrow.

“Stomach alright?”

Therion’s hand flinched and dropped back to his side. “Just recovering from last night’s bullshit,” he muttered. 

“Look, m’real sorry ‘bout that, I ain’t ever great at sayin’ ‘no’ to free drinks. Lucky for you, we just be drivin’ to Noblecourt, so ya can sleep it off in the truck if ya want.”

To that, Therion’s eye narrowed. He jabbed a thumb toward their other dining companions, still squabbling. “You really think I’m going to be able to sleep through the peanut gallery over here? You owe me a pair of ear plugs, quack.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll pick some up for ya ‘fore we head on out. Gimme about ten minutes.”

Gray skies dulled the ocean’s usual luster as it crashed against the damp sands. Alfyn wandered through the heart of the city, still rousing in the early morning and from the illness haunting the streets. Good. While his services might not be needed here, it was always nice to see someone else in his field doing great work. Too bad he didn’t have more time to seek whoever they were out - maybe they could have shared tips.

He stepped through the automatic sliding doors of the convenience store. Mr. Anders stood at the counter while the clerk fetched two packs of cigarettes and a lottery ticket. Man, he really reminded him of good ol’ Mr. Spiels back in Clearbrook, who never gave up his cigs even though his life may very well depend on it. Alfyn shook his head and grabbed a set of plugs off a rack. You could lead a horse to water, but couldn’t make it dri -

“You.”

Alfyn lifted his head while fiddling with the plastic packaging. Mr. Anders, receipt clutched in one hand and paper bag in the other, squinted with his beady eyes, unkempt beard bristling.

“What’d you do to that young lady?”

“Huh?” Alfyn blinked and glanced behind him. No one there, so - “Wait, yer talkin’ to me, sir?”

“I said,” Mr. Anders’ voice grew louder, spittle flying from his lips with every enunciated syllable, “ _what_ did you _do_ to poor Flynn!” He bared his stained yellow teeth in a scowl as he shook Alfyn’s jacket, whose hands flew up in a defensive position. “Her mother’s been all in a tizzy since her cough’s gotten _way_ worse! Lass can’t even _breathe_ right! Didn’t you say something about being there to _help?_ ”

“I - what?” Confusion buzzed in Alfyn’s mind. “No, I ain’t done nothin’, she was just fine yesterday when I checked up on ‘er. Ya say she ain’t breathin’ right?”

Mr. Anders’ pressing stare burrowed right into Alfyn’s soul, squeezing it for any traces of lying. After a moment, he huffed, released him, and pulled out his lighter. “Outside, boy,” he said - no, _ordered,_ before heading out of the convenience store. Alfyn blinked once, twice, then hurried to pay for Therion’s sleeping aids. Got _worse?_ But El’s Ma told him a completely different story. How could so much change so quickly?

He stepped outside. A faint mist enveloped Goldshore, the air thick with briny haze. Mr. Anders stood off to the side, blatantly ignoring the “NO SMOKING” sign posted on the wall when lighting up his cigarette. 

“So you’re telling me the truth, boy?” His glare lessened a mere fraction. 

“Not for nothin’, mister, but why the hell would I lie ‘bout that? More importantly.” Alfyn stuffed his purchase and wallet into his bag (which desperately needed more patches to cover the new holes, golly). “Flynn’s Ma - she be still at the apartment? I can swing by an’ take a look-see and figure out what be goin’ on.”

Mr. Anders shook his head. Smoke mingled with the drizzle. “Marlene gone and went to the Hysel Pharmacy to see if there’s anything she can afford. I’m sure she’s still waiting for the doors to open.”

“Where’s that?” 

“Know where City Hall is? Just beyond that fountain of Aelfric on Gibbleson Ave. It’s three doors down from there. Take you, oh, I dunno, about fifteen minutes walking from here?” Mr. Anders hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the ground. The cigarette’s end flickered a deep red buried beneath the ash. “That Hysel’s apparently a drug genius. Lady got her license when she was all of sixteen.”

Sixteen? Was that even possible? Or legal? Maybe different districts had different standards for becoming a pharmacist, but from his understanding, they needed at least three years of one study program and two years of another. And _then,_ most annoyingly, the Riverlands had you take _two_ godsdamned tests to prove you’re capable enough of following the formulas and _snore._ No wonder he was never cut out for college. Yet Mr. Anders here said this Hysel woman somehow crammed at least five years of higher education beginning at eleven?

He whistled. “She must know ‘er shit, then.” 

“Everyone sings her praises on both sides of the tracks, even though she just arrived all of a month ago.”

But then why the sudden onslaught of new symptoms after applying a drug to Flynn’s condition? No pharmacist worth their salt overlooked severe side effects like “not breathing right,” _especially_ in children. Allergic reaction, maybe? But that would have occurred much quicker - at least two hours maximum after ingestion. The more his brain stewed the information like potatoes, the chunkier they became: it didn’t make _sense._

“M’gonna go check on Marlene,” Alfyn said at last, pushing himself off the wall of the convenience store. “Thanks fer lettin’ me know, Mr. Anders. I’ll see what I can do fer Flynn.”

“I’m holding you to it, boy.”

He pulled out the cracked mess still trying to pass off as a cellphone - no bars still, go figure - and decided to swing back to the hotel for a moment. Oh, _crap,_ they were supposed to _leave_ now. Therion needed to get to Noblecourt. His brow furrowed when Meadow came into view, her freshly-washed body still magnificent to behold. He should clean her up more often.

“Alfyn!” Tressa beamed and waved excitedly after hefting her humongous backpack into the truck bed, joining the coolers and other bags slowly accumulating during their journey. “Hey hey! Did you get me any snacks?”

“Shucks, if I knew ya wanted some, I woulda gotten ya some.” He lowered his head apologetically. “So, uh. Slight change of game plans a bit, if y’all ain’t mind payin’ attention for a second.” All eyes turned to him. “Uh - shucks, I ain’t no good at public speakin’, maybe look elsewhere an’ I’ll talk?”

“Just out with it, quack.”

“Right, so, uh.” He scratched the back of his head. “A patient I checked on yesterday’s, well, gotten worse? An’ bein’ a doc-in-trainin’, I can’t up an’ leave in good conscience while she be sufferin’. So.” He pulled out his car keys and tossed them to Therion, who almost missed catching them. “Y’all head on over to Noblecourt, an’ I’ll catch up later. Can’t be _too_ hard to walk to, right?”

“Are you kidding?” Tressa gawked. “It’d take you _five hours_ on foot, if not more! And it’s supposed to _rain_ today. Besides - isn’t this _your_ truck?”

“This be my responsibility, so I ain’t wanna hold up everyone else none with shit I gotta take care of. Y’know? An’ I trust y’all with Meadow.” He grinned and patted the taillight. “No one would wanna yoink her away from me fer good anyhow. Might as well just get a new car!”

Kit started picking at his nails. “I don’t know if leaving you behind is such a good idea…”

“Oh, _now_ you think it’s a good idea to stick around?” Tressa huffed. “Gee, where was that bravado last night, huh!”

“For what it is worth, he _did_ apologize,” Olberic interjected.

“What! Are you taking _sides_ now, Olby?” She pressed her hands against her cheeks in shock. “How could you! We were left to become ghost-meat!”

The squabbling erupted once again. Ho boy. Alfyn clapped his hands once to get them to focus.

“It’ll be fine,” he reassured, giving them a thumb’s up. “I’ve done longer walks in the woods in my hometown. This’ll be cheesecake with them cherries on top, I promise ya. Just save me a bed at whichever inn y’all choose, ‘kay?”

“Longer than five hours?” Kit mumbled, thumb pressing against his bottom lip in thought. “In the rain?”

“I can handle it, trust me. Wouldn’t lie to yer face ‘bout that.” 

Therion weighed the keys in his hands. His thumb rubbed over the wooden fish doohickey missing one of its fins. Then, after a moment’s contemplation, the key stuck fast in the driver’s side door - opening silently like Therion’s decision of what he wanted to do next. Fair. He did have places to go - far be it from Alfyn to stop him. Tressa blinked, fists pressed close to her chest, eyes darting between the two of them and mouth opening to say something -

Therion emerged from the truck, the keys and an apple pilfered from his secret reserve (in which Alfyn still had no idea where that was) in his hands. The door slammed shut with a shudder, followed by a loud _chomp_ cutting through the peel.

“You sure?” Alfyn couldn’t help but ask, watching Therion readjust his scarf. 

“Last thing we need is the quack to get pneumonia and die on us,” he replied, miffed. He dangled the keys. “Olberic.”

Olberic shook his head once, declining the invitation to go on ahead. Therion hummed briefly before chucking the keys back to Alfyn, which bounced off his chest and skittered across the parking lot. 

“Let’s get it over with,” he said with another punctual bite.

***

Aelfric the Flamebringer, marble cloak billowing behind him as he thrust the marble lanthorn bearing his trademark high into the air, greeted them when they arrived at Gibbleson Avenue. Aflyn was no architect, but City Hall, tucked behind steel spires, bore an impressive air of “this took a long-ass time to build so you better appreciate it you undereducated country bumpkin.” However, he had no time to ogle at its marvels. He hooked a left and began counting three doors down - only to find it unnecessary. 

There stood Flynn’s Ma, Marlene, head pressed against the brick of the sidewalk, hands splayed on the ground, a tattered cloth wallet beside her. Standing above her, a young woman with long black hair did her best impression of a concerned doctor. She donned a nametag clipped to her vest reading “HYSEL.”

“Whoa,” Tressa whispered behind her hand, “this looks _serious._ ”

“ _Please,_ ” Marlene choked, a stream of snot and tears running down her face and pooling beneath her. “Please - isn’t there _anything_ I can do?”

“Look at that _line,_ ” Kit whispered. Alfyn’s attention jerked to a sea of well-to-do patrons, all appearing varying degrees of “not feeling well.” He heard wet coughs fill the gaps of silence between Marlene’s slick sobs. Gods alive, this looked worse than just some bad flu strain.

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Hysel replied, voice oozing with practiced sympathies and eyebrows lifting in perfected but preventable sorrow, “but this mutation of the flu - the cure is _much_ harder to produce and to come by. Its creation can take up to three weeks because of the dilutions being so specific and its ingredients being difficult to come by.”

“Can’t I do installments?” Marlene, using every ounce left within her trembling frame, lifted her head to meet Ms. Hysel’s eyes. “I just - one hundred thousand leaves is so _much,_ and - I know - I know medicine is _hard,_ but my daughter, she - she can’t breathe well, and she’s thrown-up _so_ much, and I - you’re a genius, and -”

Did he hear that correctly? _One hundred thousand leaves?_ The very idea that so much money existed in the first place boggled his hick mind. What medicine on the gods’ green earth required such an exuberant price tag? 

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Hysel said again, shaking her head, “but my demand is too high to make exceptions. Full payment or nothing. You are not the only one here suffering, ma’am. Please, if you could move and let the others in?”

“What the _shit._ ”

Oops. Did he say that out loud? He totally said that out loud. Everyone was staring at him - Marlene, Ms. Hysel, Tressa squeaking in surprise, Therion’s mouth parting, Olberic stiffening, Kit looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but right there. Still, the anger boiling in his gut could not overlook such a _despicable_ means of practicing medicine. He rolled up his sleeves.

“Seriously, all due respect, ma’am, but what the _hell._ ” Alfyn strode towards them, hands balled into fists. “Yer just gonna let a patient of yers suffer over some stupid-ass _leaves?_ The child could _die,_ for Dohter’s sake.”

“Nice to meet you too, sir.” Ms. Hysel, in a splendid countenance of grace and customer service, clasped her hands behind her back and offered a dazzling smile. “I _understand_ times are hard right now. The flu, and now this newfound strain cropping up - everyone has it _so_ rough! I am just one pharmacist in a city so large. The risks I take for my patients for this very drug are high, and I _do_ have a company to run. While I can sympathize, I cannot make miracles for free.”

“They ain’t _miracles,_ they be _duties_ of a medical practitioner, for one.” Alfyn squared his shoulders. “For two, if it be risky to make the drugs, then lemme help ya so I can get poor Flynn all better. We could work together, you an’ I, get everyone ‘ere hale an’ hearty.”

“And who are you supposed to be again?” Ms. Hysel tilted her head ever so slightly, lips pursed. 

“Alfyn. Alfyn Greengrass, doc-in-trainin’.”

“Then, Mr. Greengrass,” she said, flicking her ponytail back over her shoulder, “as much as I am open to the idea of offering internships at my clinic, I certainly do not wish to work with someone so _vulgar_ simply because I need to make money to stay afloat. And in this business, one can’t give out their trade secrets so willy-nilly. That said, I know where you are coming from. Believe me,” the pretty smile adorned her face once more, exposing her canines, “in an ideal world? I would love to give this poor mother my medicine. However, this is _not_ an ideal world. Supply is limited, demand is high - you understand? I can only do my best in the things I can do, sir.”

Alfyn ground his teeth together. Sure, yeah, that was pretty rude of him, dropping an expletive out of nowhere in the greeting of a possible new pal, but - but. He approached Marlene and knelt beside her, offering her a hand to stand up.

“Then you’ll never be able to do anythin’ _but_ that,” he replied at last. He glanced at the line of agitated customers and urged Marlene to stand. No good just bowing before a doctor who refused to treat you without an upfront surcharge. “Nice to meet ya, by the way,” he tacked on, hoping his inflection wasn’t as flat as his opinion of her.

The group meandered away from Ms. Hysel’s clinic (now swarmed with other folks proclaiming new symptoms and slapping leaves by the tens of thousands on her counter) with a sniveling, hiccupping Marlene in tow. She stopped before Aelfric’s statue, eyes wide and bottom lip trembling.

“Oh, dear gods,” she murmured, wringing her hands together, “please, _please_ spare my daughter - I will do anything. _Anything._ You already have my husband, I…”

“What a total jerk that lady was!” Tressa stomped her foot. “I mean, heck! I’m all for making money, but with someone’s life on the line?! How cold can somebody get! Lives are not something to profit off of!”

“Agreed.” Olberic’s frown deepened a mite. “Perhaps there is another solution.”

“I’m thinkin’, I’m thinkin’.” Alfyn paced back and forth. Sheesh, what now? Without a basic understanding of Ms. Hysel’s medication, he could hardly try to copy her techniques to conjure one of his own. Wet coughs, trouble breathing - it sounded like something attacking primarily the respiratory system. The flu’s concentration was more spread out in terms of its symptoms. “Marlene,” he said, “when’d Flynn start havin’ problems?”

Marlene ran her nose along her ratted sleeve, blinking rapidly in an attempt to regain some semblance of composure. “Um,” she said, clearing her throat, “well, she - she was fine until - I don’t know, she… Overnight?”

Overnight. The typical germination process for a cold or flu infiltrating the immune system usually took two weeks, give or take. Overnight would mean something like poisoning or some kind of chemical reaction. Probably the latter, since Ms. Hysel (even if he didn’t like how she operated) was still a pharmacist, and any pharmacist who wanted money relied on people staying alive to buy her products. “Question - ya still have any of the original medication ya got for Flynn?”

“Uh - yes? Yes, there’s - the bottle’s still by my sink.”

“Great. Let’s head back to yer place an’ I’ll see what I can do for her. That is, if ya ain’t mind a scruffy-lookin’ stranger swingin’ by.”

The expression flashing on her face read “I’d do anything for my daughter, even invite a stranger claiming to know medicine back home.” She nodded twice, slowly, before motioning for them to follow her.

“This way,” she answered. 

The rain at last began to fall.

***

For the sake of his travel companions, Alfyn asked them to stay outside under the old canopy, lest anything in the air molecules trapped in the apartment contained Flynn’s bizarre contagion. He followed Marlene up those accursed stairs, his legs whining once they reached her floor, and down the dingy hallways all the way back to Room 608. Even beyond the door, he could hear the sopping wet hacking and tiny gasps in between. He gripped his bag’s strap, hoping to Dohter he could somehow work his magic to figure this out before Flynn - well.

_Don’t be thinkin’ like that, Alf._

Flynn, moved to the couch and surrounded by used tissues, burrowed herself in a heavy quilt with her head propped by several pillows. The lazy loaf of a cat sat nearby, ears twitching at every cough, tail flicking from side to side. Ellen emerged from her room upon hearing the apartment’s front door opening, her cheeks puffy and eyes red from fretting over her poor sister.

This was the scene before him, created by the lack of one hundred thousand leaves.

Marlene stepped over a forgotten garbage bag and grasped the mostly empty glass vial sitting on the tiny windowsill over the sink. She shuffled back over, handing it to him, before kneeling in front of Flynn, anxiety knitting her eyebrows together. He thanked her with a nod of his head and rotated the vial to the back. A laminated label, taped onto the bottle with clear packing tape, emblazoned Ms. Hysel’s signature in fancy cursive. He squinted at the directions, then shifted to the ingredients list.

Nothing out of the ordinary struck him as odd at first: standard oseltamivir to prevent the spread of the flu in the body, some oxides, starch, and talc. The lack of peramivir surprised him, as that prevented mutations in infected cells, but maybe it counteracted the intended effects of the base active ingredient. His thumb ran underneath the tiny sentences, confusion building, only for an additional sentence to raise a red flag:

“ADD. ACTIVE INGREDIENTS: Gaborra Evergreen Extract (Fever Reducer)”

“Huh.” He scratched his chin, feeling the prickles of aftershave along his fingertips. “That be an interestin’ choice. Ain’t the oseltamivir enough as-is? Sure, Gaborra Evergreen’s got a quickened reaction time in the body, but - heck, what was it? Where’d I read ‘bout that? Uh.” He set the bottle down on the stained coffee table and rummaged through his bag. The leather-bound book, given to him as a birthday present from Zeph when he turned seventeen, hardly left his side as it was filled to the brim with “eclectic” tips and tricks the pharmaceuticals didn’t want common folk knowing about.

(“Here’s to us becomin’ the docs of our dreams,” Zeph said, setting the book in Alfyn’s hands with great care. Warmth blossomed in Alfyn’s chest as he squeezed the book, carefully written in Zeph’s handwriting, brimming with knowledge once lost but regained through precious dedication. “Happy birthday, Alf.”)

He skimmed the table of contents, then flipped to the page regarding the peculiar evergreen. Its cartoonish drawing of the plant almost brought a smile to his face; Zeph never was the best artist, but props to him for trying. 

“Lessee.” Alfyn rubbed the back of his neck and began pacing in small circles, trying to absorb the page’s contents as quickly as possible. “Antipyretic, uh-huh, quick dissolution time, yup, uh - wait, ‘highly unadvised for medical use as a standalone, as known to produce symptoms of inflammation and swelling to the throat, similar to the whooping cough.’” He blinked. “‘Scuse me? ‘To ensure proper fever reduction properties work without symptoms, must be paired with a secondary component known as ‘Mugwort,’ or else it will not work.’” 

He grabbed the vial again, rereading the ingredients, and - nothing. Not a mugwort to be found amidst a sea of flowery handwriting. Ms. Hysel, a purported medical genius, could not have overlooked such a critical aspect of her own medicine. The glass almost cracked in his grip. And the cure - one hundred thousand leaves - exacerbated his negative perception on her to the max.

She did this on purpose.

_That conivin’ phoney!_

The book prattled on about possible treatments for Gaborra Evergreen, most of which took too long to produce or with ingredients Alfyn never heard of. Shit. But then, at the end, with a little small asterisk pinpointing its meager offerings:

“*Blue Glowworm moss is known to counter the effects of Gaborra Evergreen post-consumption, but is rare and located only in more tropical climates (ie, Coastlands) and being in full-bloom mid-Spring to early-Summer.”

Bingo. He was in the Coastlands. It was peak bloom season for this moss. All he needed to do was find them somehow, and he could concoct his own rendition of Ms. Hysel’s scam - without the actual scamming, of course. He closed his book and nodded once.

“Don’t worry,” he said to everyone, “I’ll be able to cure Flynn. Just gotta locate the ingredients first, an’ she’ll be better in two jiffs. Y’all seen any glowy moss anywhere in these parts by any chance?”

“Glowing moss?” Marlene echoed. “I can’t say that I have, no…”

“Ooh, ooh!” Ellen perked up, eyes bright. “Wait! There’s a cave close to here, and I see it glow at night when I go shell-searching! But it’s too scary to go in, so I dunno if it’s actually moss or some evil monster.”

Another cave, huh? Maybe the gods were telling him to change gears and become a full-time spelunker. “Don’t s’pose it hurts to go an’ check it out. In the meantime, try an’ keep Flynn as comfy as possible, an’ make sure she be drinkin’ water. It’ll be hard to force down, but stayin’ hydrated will help ya fight longer. Think ya can do that for me, Flynn?”

Flynn replied with several more coughs and a weak nod. What a trooper. Ellen looked ready to cry again, but Flynn’s hand reached over and squeezed her arm in reassurance. 

“I’ll be back, so sit tight. Oh, an’ this goes without sayin’, but,” he winked, “my services be free.”

***

“ _Another_ cave.”

“Sure as shit like the sun do shine.” The rain drenched Goldshore, puddles accumulating on the streets and soaking the citizens. Even still, the lines at the foodbank remained strong, hunger of the impoverished masses undeterred. He’d need to grab extra bundles of the coveted moss for these folks, too - why would Ms. Hysel exploit the poor like this when she knew they didn’t have the money? Desperate times call for desperate measures, but _fuck_ was it wrong. One hundred thousand goddamn -

“Quack.” Therion snapped his fingers in front of Alfyn’s face. “We going or what.”

“I think I saw those caves on our way to the church,” Kit chipped in. “You don’t think the moss glows because it’s _magical,_ right?”

Alfyn laughed and shook his head. “Bet s’like the weird grapes that science ain’t yet able to determine why they be so effective. M’sure someone calls it ‘magic,’ but we’re in a day an’ age where we oughtta know better.”

“I’m telling you,” Kit protested, stepping into the rain, “magic is _totally_ real. The government’s just hiding the truth.”

“ _Someone_ spends too much time on r/conspiracytheories.” Tressa rolled her eyes. “That aside!” She whipped out her cellphone, donned it with a plastic covering to shield it from the rain, and held it high in the air. “Hello, my chippy chipmunks! Welcome to day two’s video diary entry of ‘TBA!’ _This_ time, I’m here with Olby, Kit-Kat, Alf, and,” she squinted at Therion for a few beats too long, “Opossum!”

“Oh-whatnow.”

“Oh, opossums be _real_ cute. Yeah, I can kinda see it.” Alfyn nodded to himself. 

“Why does _my_ nickname sound nothing like my _actual_ name unlike everyone else.”

“I’m doing my _best_ here, okay? You come up with a nickname based on your weirdo name! It’d take me hours, so be grateful I gave you something on the spot!” She turned the capture-feed toward the horizon. “In today’s adventure, we’re about to hop into a cave and look for some nifty-keen moss to save the day! Or something! Either way, given the weather, it’ll be a total splash! Let’s gooooo!”

“ _I’m_ the one with the ‘weirdo’ name. Okay. Like we don’t have an Olberic in our group.”

“I still do not understand to whom she is speaking,” Olberic said, perplexed. 

“Yeah, that be two of us.”

Therion groaned at their technological ignorance. “She’s ‘livestreaming’ to a digital audience. Meaning the video she’s recording is being watched by people who subscribed to her platform. Like,” he gestured uselessly, “like newspapers. You subscribe to them. They deliver a paper. You read it. It’s like that, only instantly. Some people give you money to watch you be an idiot on a computer screen.”

Alfyn whistled. “What a neat career! Think I should take up this here ‘livestreaming’ schtick an’ tell folks my fishin’ stories?”

“For the sake of their sanity - no. Just. No.”

The crusade for the moss had them walk more sand-riddled paths to the mouth of a cave less jagged than the Caves of Maiya back in Rippletide. Actually, the outer surface appeared _smooth,_ like someone took a massive rock tumbler to rid the sharp edges. Plus, the cavern’s roof arched _high,_ spacious and devoid of stalactites. The paths were just rock, not an ounce of sneaky seaweed to be seen, and it smelled salty instead of fermented grapes, for which Alfyn was thankful. 

“Whoa.” Kit stopped and poked one of the ferns, its leaves folding together to avoid his touch. “So _cool._ ”

“Ya really shouldn’t be touchin’ stuff you don’t know, y’know. Could be poisonous. I ain’t wanna try to treat ya before we help Flynn. Hey, do any of ya hear somethin’?”

The group paused together, heads tilting for phantom noises. In the distance, a wispy echo of words reverberated against the walls. 

“Someone’s here,” Therion assessed, keeping his voice low. 

“Think it’s that Hysel lady?” Tressa zoomed her camera’s focus toward the stretching darkness in a failed attempt to catch a glimpse of the source. “Wait, I think I hear a _lot_ of people talking.”

“Maybe they’re camping?” Kit offered.

“Who wants to camp in a _cave?_ I sure don’t. There’s no _service_ in here.”

They walked closer toward the source, the leafy foliage cropping up more and more between purple blossoms. How could the flowers bloom in such a dark space deprived of cute little bumblebees? The miracles of nature never stopped surprising him.

What didn’t surprise him, however, was Ms. Hysel, pharmacist extraordinaire, standing amidst a field of glowing blue. And it wasn’t just her - a handful of hired help plucked and clipped and bagged swaths of moss, all tossed in an ever-growing pile to deceive the masses. So much for hoping it was just her. Instead, she brought a whole _bunch_ of trouble.

“Seems like she’s going to horde the whole crop.” Therion eyed Alfyn. “What’s the plan.”

“Plan? Ain’t it obvious?” He double-checked his supplies in his bag - oh, good, he did have some defensive measures just in case - before emerging from behind the wall. “We’re gonna end her schemes, here an’ now.”

Kit winced. “This seems like a bad idea.”

“Oh, so you think stopping some mean lady from harvesting moss is a bad idea, but summoning demon women isn’t! I see, I see!”

“You’re never going to let that down, are you…?”

Tressa stuck out her tongue. “I let go of my grudges like I let go of special deals: absolutely _never.”_

Hysel, absorbed in counting the moss bags, didn’t notice when they approached at first. She hummed a mismatched tune filled with glee over prospects, a whispered number here or there escaping between notes. Her head only jerked up when Alfyn dug his boot into the ground with more force than necessary.

“Fancy seein’ you ‘round these parts, ma’am.” He gave a casual wave. The men gathering the moss rose to their feet, a variety of weapons drawn. Ho boy, this was going to be a doozy of a day. “Don’t s’pose you be collectin’ moss that specializes in kicking a certain evergreen’s ass, are ya?”

She tittered and pressed her forefinger against her lips. “Why, Mr. Greengrass! The pleasure is all mine. I’m surprised you found this place, given how you look to have the brains of a premature kitten. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Ya already know, what with puttin’ that shit into yer ‘freebie’ medication for the flu to later score droves of leaves for yer own gain. That’s what this all be about, no?” He pointed at the moss. “This ‘rare ingredient’ grows ‘round this area exclusively, so it ain’t be hard to get yer hands on it at _all._ You be takin’ advantage of the sick for personal wealth.”

She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “So?”

“ _So?_ ” His raised voice was amplified by the cavern. “Whaddaya mean, ‘so?’ Ain’t you a _doctor?_ We’re s’posed to be rewarded by our patients bein’ healthy, not usin’ them to make _money._ The hell’s wrong with you?”

“I should be asking the same. One should never trust anything that’s free. It’s _their_ fault for trusting blindly in my tonics. Anyone who has a computer or a cellphone can look up the ingredients at any time. Why am I the one at fault for their own stupidity?” She clicked her tongue. “And why shouldn’t I make money off what I do?”

“It’s unethical an’ _wrong,_ that’s why.”

She balked. “What, giving them exactly what it says on the tin? Please. If you want something unethical and wrong, just take a peek at the world, sweetpea. Your so-called precious profession charges an arm and a leg for life-saving tonics all the time. Why can’t I? Why can’t I also use people to my own gain like that? I have a _family,_ you know - a family like those people filling the lines on the ‘wrong side of the tracks.’ When they struggled, _I_ forged a path to get us what we’ve always wanted. A warm home. Delicious drink and food. Why are you accusing _me_ of being wrong,” she jabbed her finger at him, “when everyone else _but_ you is doing the same, oh dear ‘doc-in-training’?”

“Two wrongs ain’t make no rights, Ms. Hysel. Ya made a choice to do wrong. If ya wanted money, do that ‘livestreamin’’ thing or somethin’, but not _this._ A little girl could _die._ ”

“That’s not _my_ problem, that’s _her_ problem. Natural capitalism deemed she’s to perish.”

“Then, from one doc to another? I diagnose ya with ‘Total Bitch’ syndrome. Symptoms include lackin’ a functional heart an’ soul.”

“ _Get_ her, Alf!” Tressa whisper-yelled, cheering from the imaginary sidelines. 

Hysel cocked her head to the side, taking slow steps toward them. “I take it you’re planning to stop my little operation here and become a ‘hero’ for being so charitable to the townspeople, huh. Lucky for me, my apparent syndrome’s covered by really, _really_ good insurance.” 

She snapped her fingers. The men, hesitating behind her, lurched forward as she folded her arms across her chest. He supposed talking to someone so crooked wouldn’t cave in to arguing for the sake of somewhat decent morality. Fighting was his only choice until she was tuckered out to be taken to the authorities.

But unlike last time, he now had proper back-up.

One helper, the tallest of the ragtag bunch, decided to take on for his team and go for Olberic. His curt battle cry ended abruptly the moment his fist connected with Olberic’s jaw, which did not budge. Olberic quirked one eyebrow. His opponent froze.

“It has been awhile,” he said, almost delighted, “since I have been permitted to stand in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Um.” The guy looked at his hand, looked at Olberic’s jaw, and looked toward Ms. Hysel with an expression of “what the fuck was that?” Then he ended up sprawled out on the ground, stars swirling in his pupils. 

“Stand, challenger.” Olberic rolled his left shoulder, then his right. “We will see today whether you are worthy of being hired for your services.”

The rest of the men exchanged glances before wisely shifting their priorities to the smaller members of the team. Alfyn counted at least eight more, plus Ms. Hysel, who toyed with a dagger intended to nick plant roots. Given that Olberic counted as ten people, they had the advantage - but they shouldn’t get cocky, either.

Another guard targeted Kit, who acted like a deer caught in the headlights. The blade sliced at Kit, nipping at the blonde strands that did not duck in time, before diving downward to hit its intended target. Kit gawked, holding up his arms defensively, eyes squeezing shut - 

\- all for Tressa to let a loud _“HYAH!”_ before hurdling through the air and connecting her shoe right into the poor sap’s cranium. They both crashed into the ground, the guard thoroughly concussed and Tressa unscathed. She huffed and jabbed her finger at Kit.

“ _That’s_ how you can be a cool hero who doesn’t run away. Take notes!” 

“I think I’m in love,” Kit replied, dazed.

“ _What?_ ”

“I mean - uh - behind you!”

Tressa turned all of two seconds too late. The beefiest juggernaut, unattended to as Olberic fended off two others while Alfyn struggled with another, reached to grab her by the neck. His massive palm clutched it, lifting her high into the air, squeezing the air pipe as she kicked and wheezed to escape.

She was released as quickly as she was captured.

The knife, its edge sharp despite how worn the handle appeared, wedged itself right into the back of the man’s throat. Its tip dripped red as it punctured through the other side. The man choked, then dropped like a sack of week-old fiddleheads onto the ground. 

“Phwah! Ugh! Ow! What,” Tressa lifted her head while Alfyn stared at the scene in disbelief. “Um?”

Holy shit.

Therion yanked the knife out and frowned. “Be more careful.”

She blinked once. Twice. “I - uh - did you just _kill_ -?”

“Fight now, talk later.”

The rest of the scuffle went horrifyingly well; Olberic made quick work of every opponent, and what he lacked in speed, Therion and Tressa made up for. Kit did his best in staying out of the way as much as possible, leaving Alfyn to deal with the head of the snake: Ms. Hysel. She smiled her award-winning smile, albeit strained from how quickly decimated her insurance policy ended up. 

“I won’t let you take everything I’ve worked for, _Greengrass,”_ she seethed, and her hand dove into her bag. She pulled out a bottle with a swirling pink and purple cloud within - shades that _never_ should be together - before throwing it onto the ground. Shards flew everywhere, and the contents within spewed out a noxious, irritating scent. Alfyn slapped a hand over his mouth as his vision dizzied - gods, _noxroot gas?_ Such chemical warfare was used - and subsequently banned - in the War of the World over seventy-odd years ago. 

“Wai - !” He coughed and sputtered, eyes tearing up from the fumes. Her shadow absconded deeper into the tunnels with her fortuitous distraction, leaving her hired help behind to eat dirt. Alfyn scowled before retching, teetering to the ground and shuddering. By the gods, what a trick up her sleeve! He grimaced and groaned, rolling onto his side. That was gonna smart for a while.

“Al - Quack.” Therion knelt beside him, frowning. “What the hell was that. You don’t _run_ into gas. Get up - the rest of her men are out. Moss. That kid needs it. Up.”

Alfyn groaned again and pushed himself up slowly. At least Ms. Hysel’s quick escape was at the cost of her prized moss collection. This would be more than enough to put the citizens of Goldshore at ease. Too bad he couldn’t stop her for _good,_ though. He had a prick of Slumberthorn with her name on it and everything.

“Thanks,” he breathed, feeling the burn still heavy in his lungs. He reached for his water bottle and chugged it to quell the sting somewhat. 

Therion’s frown deepened. “For what.”

“Fer helpin’ Tress - _ngh -_ when none of us could get there in time,” he elaborated. “I - that took a lotta - _guh_ \- balls.”

He shrugged. Typical Therion. “It was either her or him. Tough decision.” Also typical Therion, who, when Alfyn took a moment to actually _look_ at him, appeared different somehow. Rattled. Of course it wasn’t obvious at first, what with Therion’s general disposition being equivalent to that of a cactus, but right now, with his scarf blotted red in spots, he seemed - upset? Pissed. Some mixture thereof. But now wasn’t the time to think about that.

Thankfully, the rest appeared all right - no life-threatening injuries amidst their group.

“It really _does_ glow,” Kit said, bewildered as he held up a plastic bag. “How?”

“Biolumi-somethin’.” Alfyn coughed a few more times, slowly feeling better. At least Ms. Hysel’s version wasn’t lethal. “I think. I ain’t none too sure myself. Whatever it is, s’gonna work wonders to fix up the city.”

“I cannot fathom how, but I am interested in observing you work.” Olberic helped pick up the rest of the bags. 

“Sure, why not? Wanna teach me more practical self-defense skills in exchange?”

He nodded once. “Certainly. We start tomorrow morning.”

“Oooh, ooh! Me too, me too!” Tressa bounced up and down, pointedly avoiding eye-contact with the corpse of the man who tried to kill her. 

“I don’t think you need _more_ lessons, personally.” Kit smiled. “You’re really strong, Tressa.”

“Well, _one_ of us has to be.”

“I’m - ! I’m plenty strong! Just - well, just in different areas.”

“Uh-huh. Suuuure you are.”

“Be careful where you step,” Olberic chided lightly, “lest you will trip.”

The conversation continued all the way out of the cave heading back to town. Alfyn glanced at Therion, who hitched up his stained scarf to cover his nose. Yeah. Yeah, he definitely wasn’t feeling too great about murdering someone. The thought prompted Alfyn to swallow hard. It wasn’t his first time seeing someone stab another person, but it still didn’t get any easier. Yet Therion committed the act almost without a second thought. Sure, it was either Tressa or that bad guy, but…

“Did you want something or are you just going to stare at me.” His hand fluttered back to his stomach, almost squeezing at it. His hangover was that strong, eh?

Alfyn slowed down his pace a little. “No, I ain’t need nothin’, but - I was just wonderin’, y’know, if you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” Therion turned away. “Wasn’t my first rodeo.”

The rain grew heavier, soaking them all in a matter of ten seconds. Cripes, driving in this was going to be a nightmare and a half. Alfyn opened his mouth, then subsequently closed it for a lack of something to say. He’d done it before? What kind of life did Therion even live? 

(“Life goes on, with or without you.”)

No kidding. Alfyn still didn’t know so much about him. Heck, he knew more about Tressa in their first three hours driving than he did this whole time with Therion. She owned a chipmunk named Chimney. Therion had a dad who died - and that was it. Oh, and he liked apples, but not green ones for some reason.

“Why not green?” he asked aloud, but his question was drowned out by the rains and the sopping stomps of everyone’s footsteps against the darkened sands.


	15. h o rn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, deepest apologies for yet another delay - my life keeps getting upended by the dreaded ‘overtime.’ thank y’all for ur patience and ur kind comments and kudos - it really motivates me to keep going in spite of a hectic daily life. that said! here be chapter 15 - pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!

Fate twisted in the wind, and today, it blew in Vanessa’s direction, carrying her feet through the dampened streets of Goldshore, beyond her now-abandoned temporary clinic, and along the outskirts of the Church of the Sacred Flame’s hallowed grounds. If the gods were real, they ought have burned her heels with blisters and covered her in welts for her supposed many sins upon her arrival. But they didn’t, so here she stood, collecting her breath, hands pressed against her knees. 

That _Greengrass._ What a fucker, getting in her way like that. Hell, one of his little friends even ganked a hired helper of hers. If not for her own record, she would’ve found a way to get them arrested and tossed out of her life for good.

“And ya call yerself a doctor,” she mocked in an exaggerated facade of her newfound enemy’s voice. “ _Whatever._ ”

Like he knew anything better. In Orsterra - no, the whole damn world - nobody was on your side. You took what you could get, and playing by some archaic goody two-shoe rulebook got you nowhere. Look at her sister, for example: a bright-eyed prodigy, a starlet in the making, a woman who worked hard and laughed harder. She played by the rules, prayed to the gods, countenance oozing in breathtaking kindness to those who crossed her path - all to be snuffed out by some quick-moving cancer no hospital would bother to diagnose correctly since what little funds left by their piss-poor parents couldn’t cover the exuberant costs to see a professional. 

(“Nessie,” she wheezed, “Nessles. It hurts.”

No matter how many books Vanessa never returned to the library, none of them could be absorbed fast enough, could be flipped through quick enough, to produce some miracle cure for a disease that was 98% fatal.

“I know,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but stay with me. You can do this. If anyone can, it’s _you._ ”)

She couldn’t.

Vanessa pressed her back against the cold stone of the cathedral’s outer wall and squinted upward at the swirling storm clouds. Operations had been cut short, but the fat swathes of cash nestled safely in her bag more than made up for it. Those oinking piglets bought into her honeyed tongue and doe eyes so easily. Must be nice to have cash to burn. But they sure got theirs, taking a pittance of their life savings and handing it to her with no questions asked for her cure.

(“ _A little girl could die._ ”)

Little girls died all the time, Greengrass. She’s seen it herself. Reality wasn’t a pleasant waltz through the park. It slapped you, it choked you, it dragged you through the muck and the grime until all that remained was but flapping skin and bones with all the entrails smeared into the dirt in your wake. Beg all you want - no god gave a damn about your sister when she collapsed and died agonizingly slowly in your arms as the world glanced at you, shrugged, and said, “Well, there was nothing more we could’ve done to stop this.”

It was only fair, after all. 

Vanessa clicked her tongue. What now? She could relocate elsewhere, play her con someplace overflowing with riches and fine wines. She needed to come up with a new last name though. “Hysel” was such a good one, too. Shame she had to ditch it so quickly. But before _that,_ she needed to get the hell out of the city before that _Greengrass_ decided to rain more upon her parade. So she needed a ride, and quick. The rain all but ruined her make-up, so seduction was out of the question, but -

“Miss? Are you all right?”

\- needling on someone’s pity might work.

She lifted her head and was greeted with the face of an unfamiliar gentleman. Good. Maybe he didn’t know her. Wow, what a _looker,_ though. She’d kill to have such nice eyebrows. And his hair - long and unkempt but a gentle brown to prompt anyone to lower their guard - damn. Some people just had it made from the get-go. He reeked of pleasantries and sympathy. Perfect.

“Y-Yes,” she said, followed by a well-timed sniff of a sobbing sissy. “Ah - oh, goodness, I’m so sorry,” she wiped her face along her sleeve, “I’m just, I’m at a loss of what to do, my boyfriend - _oh,_ but I shouldn’t trouble you, I just can’t help myself.”

The man hesitated, dark eyes flitting from her face to the ground, before shaking his head. “Please, it’s of no matter,” he said, smiling. “I can’t turn a blind eye to someone who clearly needs an ear. Permit me to listen.”

A smoothtalker, eh? Who spoke like that anymore? Maybe he came from one of them well-to-do homes. Good - the richer, the less guilt to worm into her heart with her manipulations. “Are you _sure?_ It’s - um - it’s a bit, ah.”

“By all means, take your time.”

She nodded twice and licked her lips, buying herself more time to solidify her story. “I thought it was meant to be,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “But the two-faced weasel, he - he left me a note at the hotel and said he was seeing someone else. I came all this way to meet him, and now that he’s _left_ me, I have no way home.”

“Dear me. That _is_ a conundrum, isn’t it? I am so sorry that happened to you. Mind if I…?” His arm outstretched toward her shoulders. One of them touchy-feely bastards, was he? Whatever. So long as it got her what she wanted. She nodded, and he settled his arm along her back, eyebrows knit together in the picture-perfect rendition of “concern.” “I may not be your former lover, but I would be more than happy to offer my assistance to take you wherever you may need to go.”

“Really? But, ah. I don’t have any way to repay you…”

He laughed - soft and gentle, reverberating along her skin. “Please, I would not be a good man if I asked for repayment to help someone. Pray tell, where are you heading?”

As far from here as possible. “Um,” she sniffed again, dabbing at her eyes once more while her brain rattled her thoughts for ideas, “to Saintsbridge.”

“My, that _is_ far.”

“I’m sorry. If it’s too much of a bother -”

“Oh, no, it’s no trouble at all. I’m about ready to leave this city myself. What I am looking for is not here yet.”

An interesting use of “yet.” Made her curious, if she cared. He continued,

“My name is Matthew, by the by. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…?”

“Tomas,” she answered, “Ms. Tomas. Sorry, I - my mum told me to never share my first name to strangers, even kind ones.”

“Understandable.” His arm withdrew, and he clasped his hands behind his back. “Well then. My vehicle is located in the church’s parking lot - care to join me? Ah, but - have you any items you need to collect back at the hotel first? I would not want you to leave anything else behind that is precious to you.”

All that’s precious was long-lost already. She shook her head and managed a fake smile rehearsed so many thousands of times.

“Very good. This way, Ms. Tomas.”

The trek to the parking lot wasn’t very long in spite of the church’s sprawling campus. How fortunate to meet a sucker for a pretty girl right when she needed it. She almost wanted to sing in elation, even more so when she noticed his vehicle looked sparkling and new and comfortable. New game plan: seduce this man on the way to Saintsbridge, marry him, pull a black widow, and inherit his fortune. Easier than playing pretend pharmacist at least.

She slid into the passenger seat and clipped on the seatbelt. Wow, this car even had _seat warmers,_ which turned on the moment the vehicle hummed to life.

“Is this really okay with you?” she asked again. “It is a long way.”

“There is something I need in Saintsbridge anyhow, so it is of no concern to me.” He smiled again - and upon seeing it, the strange sensation of his arm on her shoulder returned. Something was _weird_ about it, now that she stopped to think. Now his smile too - a hint of malice caged behind those pearly whites. “Are you comfortable, Ms. Tomas? Do you need me to turn up the heat? You are drenched, after all.”

“No,” she replied, numbly, and watched him flick on the radio. A soft piano emanated from the speakers.

That was it.

This man - he had no body heat. Like a walking corpse, his arm was as cold as the rains that drenched her. Any sane thought shrieked to get the hell out of there, to rip off the seatbelt and eject herself from this creep’s car, but she couldn’t risk that _Greengrass_ and friends to come around and find her, expose her, and ship her off to jail.

Well. She could still make this work in her favor somehow. If anyone could turn around a questionable situation, it was her. 

“This song is nice,” she commented in an effort to shrug off the lingering strangeness. 

Matthew smiled - warmly this time.

“It is a classical piece, reimagined. Ever heard of the _Sunland Quartet?_ No? I am not too surprised - they haven’t a rounded audience yet. This is my favorite piece of theirs, the _Fires of Midnight, Symphony 8._ Even if its origins are from that of the _church,_ it still has an exquisite sound.”

She pursed her lips. “It sounds like you’re not a fan of the church.”

“I am none too keen on their practices. Blasphemous, I know.”

“It’s the same for me,” she admitted, relaxing somewhat into her seat as the car exited town. “Hard to believe in the gods in a world like this.”

His forefinger tapped against the steering wheel, gaze shifting toward her before his smile widened.

“You simply need to find the right one to believe in, Ms. Tomas. Have you ever heard of the one called Galdera?”

***

(“They are also known as the ‘Dark One,’” recounted his father. The rinky-dink oven’s burners sputtered to life, and he set the frying pan on it. “Way back when, before you and I were born, the Dark One tried to tear the heavens apart.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Gods never need reasons. They just do what they wish.” One eggs, two, splattered onto the skillet, and they hissed and gargled and popped. “Which _really_ means I don’t know. And the storytellers never say why, either - maybe the Dark One just wanted to stick it to grumpy old Aelfric.” Salt, then pepper, shake shake shake. “Aelfric is a bit old-fashioned and stuck in his ways of right and wrong, or so the legends say.”

“Mm…”

“Anyways.” Swish, flip, his father used a spatula with the dexterity of a former chef with his glory days long behind him. “So the Dark One was all, ‘You suck,’ and started a war all by themselves against the other Twelve. They tore holes into the sky and sucked the stars dry of their light. Can you imagine having a temper-tantrum so large you literally take it out on the stars, of all things?”

“A… _temp-par-tan-trump._ ”

“Close, squiddo. Temp-per-tan-trum. It means to throw a fit. To be upset and stuff.” Another flip. “The Dark One was the youngest of the thirteen original gods - a little tyke, just like you. Maaaaaybe a bit taller than you, though. I keep telling you to eat your veggies.”

“ _Ick._ ”

His father held up his hands and gave a soft laugh. “Alright, alright, I’ll stop forcing you to eat green peas. You’re missing out though, just so you know.” He grabbed two paper plates and plopped the cooked eggs onto each. He pushed one plate in front of Therion. “The Dark One lost, in the end - I mean, twelve against one, it’s kind of an unfair fight. You’d think at _least_ one other god would join ‘em, but no, they all stayed by Aelfric’s side. And after that? Poof! Sealed the Dark One away, just like that, never to be seen again.”

“Lame.”

“Lame? Hah! Yeah, I guess so, eh? Think it’d be a little more exciting than that.” He stabbed his egg in the middle, and the yolk pooled out in thick yellow rivers pouring into a miniature golden lake. “But you gotta remember something, squiddo-dee.”

Therion imitated his father and stabbed the egg in the almost-middle. It didn’t quite have the same neat effect, but it would do. “What’sat?”

“History and legends, it’s always one-sided, and always told by the _winners._ Y’know? So we don’t have the full story, just an incomplete one watered down over time. Me, I feel a little bad for the Dark One. Having no one on your side’s kinda crummy.”

“Being a _bad guy’s_ crummy,” Therion countered.

His father laughed. “Yeah, you’re not wrong there. Guess they got their just desserts. Don’t eat too quick there, buckaroo - you want it to last. We’re going on a small trip today, remember?”

“It’s just to the _river.”_

“Still a daytrip. Don’t forget your bucket, either - it’s prime-time for smelts.”

“Aww… fishing takes -”)

Forever. Waiting for Alfyn - the quack, he corrected - waiting for that idiot to mush the moss into paste took so long. He hated it as much as he hated fishing. Or those memories. Or just life in general, really; today had been shitty. Rain, murder, and feeling overall under-the-weather with his guts tying themselves into knots. He leaned against the wall and tapped his foot incessantly, arms folded tight across his chest, an impending sense of doom seeping over his shoulders. 

The kid was staring at him. She obviously wanted to chit-chat to pass the time, but he really wasn’t in the mood to substitute for Alf - the quack. 

“Conch,” she said at last.

What.

“Huh.”

“No, um… Sanddollar! Your hair is like a sanddollar.” She held up a said-sanddollar and shoved it into his hands. “A perfect match! Keep it, since you and Mr. Alfyn helped us bunches!”

Great. First an opossum, and now he’s graduated to a useless sea creature for little kids to pick up and chuck into the ocean. Just what was he supposed to do with the stupid thing? “Oh,” he said, for lack of anything better to say, and pointedly kept his gaze at the floor. But that one single utterance enabled her to chat up a storm, as if Tressa and the rest of their merry little gang hadn’t decided to wait back at the truck for Alfyn to finish up. 

“You mights look like a sanddollar, but you act more like a jelly!” She wiggled her fingers to imitate the lethal stingers. How he knew what she did because he totally wasn’t glancing in her direction, he didn’t know.

“It’s ‘jellyfish.’ Not ‘jelly.’”

“You knew what I meant, mister!” She stuck out her tongue. “Mummy says always being mad is bad for your health. You should smile more!”

“I’ll smile when there’s something worth smiling over.”

“Your friend!” She pointed down the hallway, where the sounds of coughing grew quieter while the seconds crawled by. “He’s nice. You should smile about that!”

This was getting nowhere fast. He pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the mounting frustration - _she’s just a kid, no need to get worked up over this -_ before shaking his head. “If you say so.”

Ellen puffed her cheeks.

“Pufferfish,” he continued, and smirked at the immediate shift from slight disappointment to utterly aghast. 

“I’m no stinking _pufferfish,_ you - you -!”

“Whoa now.” Alfyn, who finally bothered to show his ugly mug from the bedroom for the first time in - wait, only an hour? - a bit, raised an eyebrow. “Sheesh, you two look ‘bout ready to brawl like the best of ‘em, ah? The heck happened ‘ere?”

“I’m no _pufferfish!_ ” She stomped her foot, loudly, as if that ended any room for argument. Then, after a moment: “Oh - Doc! Is Flynn -”

“Righter than the rains right ‘bout now.” He grinned from ear-to-ear and rubbed the back of his neck. Behind him, the mother - who’s age reversed all of twenty years with the stress of her child no longer on death’s door shed off her shoulders - smiled. “‘Course, she’ll need a few more days to recover completely, but she ain’t in danger no more. Promise.”

Ellen all but barrelled down the cramped hallway to barge into Flynn’s room, despite her mother’s yelling of, “Keep it _down,_ she’s trying to rest!” Kids would be kids. They never listened. Therion sighed, relieved from babysitting duty at long last, before turning toward the door.

“Alfyn,” the kids’ mother said, “is there - how can I repay you?”

To that, Alfyn pursed his lips, gaze shifting to the ceiling. Then he snapped his fingers and placed the large glass jar filled with gross-looking blue liquid onto the shell-covered coffee table. “Ya can do me a favor an’ give this out to anyone else who may need it. Teaspoon should be more than ‘nough to make them nasty coughs go bye-bye. Love to stick ‘round longer an’ do it myself, but -” he gave Therion a quick glance, “- I’m already wicked late for another obligation. Oh, I know! Therion.”

Now what? “Mm.”

“Can I give ‘er your phone number in case she got questions later? I’d give ‘er mine own, but, y’know.” He let out a sheepish laugh. 

“What am I, your personal secretary.” He shrugged and opened the door. “Do what you want, I don’t care.”

Noncommittal answers were open to interpretation, although the hints of _fix your shit and stop using mine_ went right through one of the quack’s oafish ears and out the other undigested. Alfyn wrote the number on some scrap paper and handed it to the lady. Great. Grand. Therion stepped into the hallway and glowered at his burner, apparently cursed to stick by his side. New text messages, all from the gremlin, showered his notifications, giving him an unnecessary play-by-play of their own waiting game. He deleted most of them before his thumb paused over one message:

 **Gremlin:** where u 2 at?? I’m getting hungry!! D:<

He tilted his head, bangs tickling at his nose (he needed to get them trimmed sooner than later), before hashing out a reply:

 **Me:** eat kit. sure he’s nutrioutious enuff.

 **Me:** quacks done. will b ther soon.

 **Gremlin:** I AM NOT EATING KIT OMG EW EW EW U R THE WORST!!! DDD:<

“Y’look like yer havin’ fun, eh?”

Therion pocketed the phone faster than he ever swiped a snack from the grocery store. He snorted and jerked his head toward the stairs. 

“If you don’t want your old patient to become money-goblin food, I suggest we get a move on.”

The rain hardly let up any as they meandered through the city to get back to Meadow. Silence settled between them, which, by all accounts, Therion ought be grateful for; he already had a headache from that squirt and from last night. However, given what he knew about Alfyn, silence equated to either a.) the idiot attempting to think, or b.) the idiot pondering heavy subjects he wasn’t quite sure how to breach. For someone who loved to talk about other people, he sure sucked about blathering about his own damn self when it mattered.

In another display of his own foolishness, Therion took a shot in the dark:

“I don’t think she’ll try anything that stupid anytime soon. She’ll lay low for a bit, _then_ try again, but I don’t think she’ll get away with it forever.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Alfyn clicked his tongue. “I should just be happy that I was able to fix her bullshit, but knowin’ she got away really pisses me off. Who the hell hurts people with _medicine_ like that? By Dohter’s dick, that shit’s pure evil. I ain’t never -” He paused, sighed, and shook his head. “Not much point in gripin’ ‘bout it now, huh.”

“Not really.” Therion kicked a rock and watched it clack against the old unused train tracks. About fifteen more minutes until they reached Meadow from here. He shrugged. “Orsterra might be big, but it’s not too big. If she pulls this again, I’m sure you’ll come running to save the day like a moron you are. There’s always a second chance.”

Alfyn stopped mid-step and stared at him, flummoxed. “That be oddly _optimistic_ of ya there, buddy. Y’sure you ain’t still feelin’ under the weather from drinkin’ too much?”

“It’s not ‘optimistic.’ If we run into her again, it’ll get in the way of my job, which won’t be my idea of a ‘good time.’ I’ve got more important shit to do than keep an eye on you, y’know. ...You know.” 

“Ah, ten leaves into the ‘y’know’ jar,” Alfyn teased, pushing his forefinger into Therion’s cheek. He laughed. “Well, I mean, ya ain’t gotta keep an eye on me none. Ya do know that, right? M’perfectly capable of handlin’ my own problems. But,” his tense expression relaxed a fraction ( _theeeeere it is_ ), “I appreciate ya doin’ so. Can’t seem to keep my nose outta crap.”

“If you die, I’m out of a ride. So stop smelling the shit and keep your eyes on the road, quack.” His cheek burned, and the ghost of pressure against it lingered for three beats too long. Gods damn it. His stomach lurched uncomfortably.

“I getcha, I getcha. I’ll try to, but no guarantees. Thanks, though - fer helpin’ me out this time ‘round.” He grinned. “I mean it.”

“Whatever.”

The more Therion tried to fight getting involved, the more entangled in the net of Alfyn’s enthusiasm he became. A futile struggle, familiar and overbearing, but Alfyn wasn’t _him._ Alfyn was nothing like _him_ \- at least, not yet. Therion didn’t trust the quack one bit - well, enough to snag a ride to Noblecourt and back. He needed to remember. He needed to _remember_ the reason why he didn’t. He could handle this on his own, this job, this path, this _life,_ without anyone else sinking their filthy hands into his chest to tear out a once-beating and once-warm heart.

It splattered and became gizzard soup in the belly of the Cliftland’s gaping maw.

Since that day, he had become more like a ghost than ever.

Alfyn still radiated a _warmth_ Therion saw in certain people. Gremlin and the wonder-kid possessed it, too, and that bodyguard, albeit muted, shielded it behind an impenetrable wall. Those cold and just a shell of their former selves flocked toward such warmth in hopes of - of something, but gods, Therion wanted none of it. He knew the reality of the world, and never wanted to forget. 

Self-defense was the best offense. Or something like that.

Meadow came into view, and Therion discarded those thoughts into the puddles around the tires, hoping they would be crushed to smithereens. He scowled at his soaked scarf and matted hair. A shower right about now would be nice, but any further delays and he knew he’d never get to Noblecourt. Some other issue would crop up, no doubt.

“Finally!” Tressa threw her hands up in the air. She still avoided eye-contact with him - well, she did witness him drain the life out of her attacker. No one was going to bring that up, were they? They’d politely ignore it, bury it with the bones of a nameless man, and hope it’d never come up or happen again. Life wasn’t so simple. “Yeesh, you two smell like wet dog!”

“Like you’re much better,” he retorted. “Wait. How are you dry.”

“Duh? We all changed in the hotel’s guest bathroom?” She jabbed a thumb at the building. “They let us borrow some spare towels too. Took all of ten minutes. If you want, we can wait a little bit longer so you two can get changed.”

“Please get changed,” Kit added, nose wrinkling. “For me.”

Olberic chose to not comment. Wise man.

The accommodating hotel staff (already prepared with two more towels - Tressa probably mentioned they would come by) were kind enough to not say anything when they came inside. A fresh change of clothes and somewhat manageable hair later, Alfyn bade the staff farewell before hopping back into the truck. 

“Everyone ready?” He clicked on his seatbelt and glanced into the rearview mirror, as if making sure he didn’t misplace anyone. His eyes met with Therion’s, who turned away.

Finally. Noblecourt, at _last._

“There’s a restaurant called the ‘Heartland’s Grotto’ that we _have_ to go to in Nobelcourt,” Tressa prattled on as Meadow hummed to life. “Apparently, the poached quail’s to _die_ for - and the presentation is just - _mwah!_ I have _got_ to get some photos for my TBA!”

“And who exactly is going to pay for your meal, gremlin.”

“Kit, since he owes me one.”

“Since I - wait, _what?!_ But I didn’t do anything!” 

“My evidence in the church proves otherwise! Ooh, I think I read somewhere about them having 100% organic orange juice, too. I’ve just _got_ to splurge on that while I’m at it, don’t you think?”

“Please,” Kit mumbled, burying his head in his hands, “have mercy on my wallet.”

“Perhaps it is best to not seek mercy, but forgiveness,” Olberic said. “I would not mind trying their food myself.”

“Not you, too!” 

“The steak there is supposed to be _divine._ I think you’d _love_ it, Olby,” Tressa added, and Therion swore he heard Kit’s soul crumple up and die inside.

_Sucks to suck, kid._

His fingers stroked the sanddollar tucked away in his pocket that he accidentally kept as Goldshore faded from view behind them.


	16. ai r b a g

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello everyone! welcome back to another installment of “dear god this has gotten out of control, what am I even DOING anymore” a now 16-part adventure that was originally discarded in 2018, revived this year, and now we all be here. uh. so! Thank u all for ur kind words and kudos - they all mean so much to me. now without further ado, here be ch. 16!

The Flatlands lived up to their name, what with the horizon stretching as far as Alfyn’s eyes could see. It made for the easiest driving he’s ever experienced since the trip began, Meadow chugging along with a pleasant hum emitting from her grill. Several other vehicles hurdled along the road, whizzing by at whopping speeds he never dared to exceed. The last thing the truck needed was another trip to the mechanic’s. 

The main drag forked in two different directions - left, where most other cars veered off toward the esteemed Atlasdam, and right, where the street quality dipped eighty percent and where they were headed. He flicked on the blinker and turned, the city of Noblecourt just but a speck on the vast plains before them. 

“Ughhhhh.” Tressa banged her forehead against the back of Alfyn’s seat. “This district is sooooo boring! There’s nothing to even _look_ at!”

“Well,” Kit piped up, “do you know the many _legends_ about the Flatlands? Like, the reason why it’s so flat in the first place? Apparently,” he continued in spite of no one confirming they were interested, “when the Battle for the Stars occurred, the gods fought here, trampling the earth beneath their feet as they did battle against - uh - what’s the name, the bad guy with - you know -” he snapped his fingers a few times, “ - the Dark One. I can never remember his name.”

“Galdera,” Therion filled in. It was the first word he uttered in about two hours. Alfyn thought maybe he was taking a nap; he looked ready to conk out at any second.

“Yeah, him! So the larger dips in the ground, they’re rumored to have been the footprints of the gods when they defended Orsterra. Some even say that if you dig into the earth deep enough, you’d find unexplained pieces of broken metal and other artifacts that no one can explain where they came from! Um.” His excitement dropped into a sheepish, apologetic look. “Uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean - I get rambling a lot, I’m sorry if it’s a bit annoying.”

“Ain’t annoyin’ at all, Kit.” Alfyn gave a thumbs’ up but kept his eyes on the road. Even with less traffic out this way, other cars still claimed the opposite lane, so he didn’t want to risk swerving. “I think it be cool.”

“I don’t believe in that hokey-pokey godly nonsense, but the stories are neat-o enough.” Tressa kicked up her feet on the chair’ back. “At least they’re more interesting than this absolute _nothing_ around here. Geeeeez. How is Atlasdam ranked as one of the most popular places to live!”

“A good... friend of mine once attended the university,” Olberic said. His lips downturned somewhat. “He said the education there is exemplary.”

“Don’t matter. School is school is school, in my books!” She sprawled out her arms and almost whacked poor Kit upside the head. “All boring, all dreadful! The only good class school has is business - oh, and economics, and gym. And gym’s only fun if it’s dodgeball day. The lunches _suck,_ the teachers are a snore, and - ooh, what’s that!”

She abandoned her uncomfortable domination of the back seat and lunged her forefinger forward at the windshield. Alfyn squinted; in the distance, a multitude of colorful tents pitched on the grasslands and various other stalls stood out like a sore thumb amidst the sweeping greens. At first, Alfyn assumed it to be a weird camping grounds of sorts until he saw kids walking around with balloons and armfuls of screaming pink cotton candy. 

“Ooh, well lookee here.” Alfyn found himself grinning. “Carnival’s in town - and pretty close to Noblecourt too. Man, I _love_ these things. Wow, they even got them fancy rollercoaster thingies!”

“I wanna go!” Tressa beamed brighter for the first time since they left Goldshore. “While the opossum’s doing his weirdo work shin-digs, can we go? I’ll literally _die_ without getting some super-duper expensive popcorn. I’ll _die._ ” 

“Don’t see how that would be a bad thing,” Therion muttered, prompting a hearty _thwack_ from Tressa’s hat batting against the top of his head with mildly excessive force. 

“You’re just jealous that you’ll be too busy to join us,” she replied in a sing-song voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you some caramel-covered apples or something, since you’re, like, practically in _love_ with them.” She put her hat back on and perked up. “Look! It’s Noblecourt! I can hear dinner calling my name!”

“Kit’s not even saying anything.”

“For the _last time,_ I’m not gonna eat Kit, that’s _gross._ ”

“Wh - what? Eat _me?_ I’m sorry? Did I miss something, I - I’m not food!”

“Please do not eat other people,” Olberic said with a sigh.

The brick city gates of Noblecourt, covered in flowering vines, propped up an antiquated wooden sign welcoming everyone to their humble home. Despite where the city resided, the footpaths, dressed in cobblestone, wound up and down into different elevations to provide some variety. The houses belonged in a pop-up fairytale, bearing secrets in their aging brick-and-mortar as they watched the city’s inhabitants pass by. What secrets, Alfyn could only guess; he didn’t speak house, but man, wouldn’t that be a fun conversation?

Meadow pulled up to the gas station and Alfyn pulled up the emergency brake before hopping out of the truck. The station matched the trending aesthetic, built entirely in stone and with architecture heralding back to yesteryear. He placed the gas nozzle into the tank while the rest of their party took a breather and got out, too.

“Well!” Tressa placed her hands on her hips, eying Noblecourt’s prospects. “I’m going to go score us a _sweet_ pad to crash the night in, and _then,_ ” her eyebrows waggled, “ _dinner._ C’mon, Kit - I’m not letting you run off on me before you pay your dues!”

“Help,” Kit managed to say before Tressa’s arm locked around his neck and dragged him off into the night.

“Shall I accompany them?” Olberic inquired, to which Alfyn laughed.

“Dunno if ya wanna get in the middle of _that._ Tress’ll text Therion when she finds us a place to land fer the night, no doubt.” The meter capped off, and Alfyn placed the nozzle back where it belonged. His wallet still felt hefty in his hands with more leaves than he ever imagined having bulging at the seams. “In the meantime, how ‘bout you two find us a good place to get us a drink or three? I’ll park Meadow ‘ere and join ya in a sec.”

“I’m good.” Therion held up a hand and shook his head. “My ‘job’ needs me at top-shape tomorrow.” 

“Oh, yeah, ya do gotta take care of that, huh.” Top shape? Alfyn’s brow furrowed at the peculiar paleness seeping into Therion’s skin. “You doin’ alright? Ya didn’t catch that flu from Goldshore there, didja?”

“I’m fine.” He leaned against Meadow, arms folded across his chest. Alfyn and Olberic exchanged concerned looks.

“Alrighty. But if that changes, ya let me know, ‘kay?” He gave Therion’s shoulder a firm pat. “Last thing we need be our GPS to go down on us.”

“Thought you said you didn’t need one,” Therion drawled. 

“Hey, people change, y’know. Be right back.”

Just in case, Alfyn paid for some cold medicine in addition to the gas he took. He glanced at the bulletin board behind the cashier, chock-full of outdated pamphlets. The only relevant one, pinned smack-dab in the center, showcased the nearby carnival’s running dates and costs. Until the end of next week, huh? Lucky them, Tressa could get her “to die for” popcorn, after all. 

“First time here?” the cashier asked.

“Shucks, that obvious I be a tourist?”

“Nah. When you’ve lived here as long as I have,” the cashier tilted his head back, “you come to know everyone’s name and face. Yours is one I haven’t seen before. That said, please try to enjoy your visit here, you hear? Noblecourt,” he stroked his chin, “is an _old_ city, friend. A very, very old city. I’m afraid we’re so old we’ve been left behind in the flow of time. Your change.”

The words lodged in Alfyn’s brain and tickled his curiosity. Now that he actually looked around, not only were the buildings on the older side, but the people, too. Weathered faces and wrinkled smiles abound in the twilight of a dying populace. It was common in tiny places with dwindling populations when the younger folk absconded to bigger cities with bigger opportunities, but… He frowned. Noblecourt, all things considered, ought to be a bustling metropolis. The set-up was there.

He meandered back to the truck. Therion grunted in greeting and pocketed his phone.

“She scored some rooms ‘at a deal,’” he said, fingers imitating quotation marks. “But she and Kit are underage to check-in officially, so you need to go play ‘older brother,’ since you two look kind of similar.”

“Shucks, do we? I ain’t so sure ‘bout that.” Alfyn fiddled with his ponytail. “Her face be a heck of a lot more round than mine. Wait a sec. I gotta _act?_ Like, _lie_ an’ shit? Oh man.”

“You. You literally just have to say you’re her older brother and everything will be fine.” Therion groaned. “Just - ugh, fine, quit stressing like a mother hen, I’ll do it, get in the truck and drive already.”

***

In the end, Olberic - in an impressive display that refuted any attempts to question his sincerity - stood up to the plate and acted as Tressa’s way, _way_ older big brother. The front desk clerk adjusted her glasses, glanced at the group before her, and simply handed them the keys. Well. That went a lot easier than anticipated.

“One’s a king-size, so Olberic should get that one,” Tressa said, handing out the keycards. “Um, hm. I’ll take the full in the queen-full combo, Kit can sleep in Olby’s room on the little couch pull-out thing since he’s short -”

“You’re shorter than me!”

“ - and Alf and the opossum there can share the queen,” she continued, ignoring Kit’s argument. “Now everyone’s happy! Okay, once we’re all settled, it’s dinnertime! Meet here in the lobby in ten minutes - last one down is a rotten egg!”

She booked it up the creaking, spiraling stairwell, leaving them in the dust. Alfyn fiddled with the keycard in his hand before glancing at Therion, who appeared nonplussed at the current sleeping arrangements. That made one of them. His nerves screamed on full red-alert, alarming the blush reactors to beam bright red in his cheeks.

“Don’t just stand there,” Therion said, sighing as he hefted up the cooler. “I’m hungry, too.”

“Uh. Right. Yup. Right behind ya, bud.” _Get it together, dammit._

The ornate carpeting and portraits filled the mahogany halls with colorful splashes to disrupt the rich browns. Their room, shared with Tressa (who already threw her heavy bag onto the full bed), possessed a fancy air Alfyn wasn’t quite accustomed to. It’s like he stepped through a portal that transported him to two centuries ago. The headboards bore curved spiral patterns, and sheer drapes hung over both beds. Talk about fancy.

“Y’think this building used to be some noble house way back when?” How the heck was he gonna sleep here without feeling bad for ruining the presentation?

“It makes me feel like a real princess!” Tressa poked her head into the bathroom with an appropriate _ooh_ escaping her lips. She took out her phone and began snapping photos, trying to score close-ups of the woodwork and the neat little decorations placed to make the room feel more cozy. Therion rolled his eye.

“Thought the last one down was a rotten egg.”

“Huh? _Oh!_ ”

Unfortunately for Tressa, Kit beat her downstairs; this loss was much more detrimental than Alfyn’s newfound “rotten egg” status. 

Doubly unfortunate for Tressa, it turned out her fancy restaurant she wanted to try was closed for renovations. Instead, their group decided to stop in at a cafe overrun with more vines and cute iron seating decorating the storefront. Tressa all but devoured her salad and complimentary breadsticks while Alfyn was still unwrapping the daintily-wrapped silverware to try out his overflowing reuben sandwich. Sheesh, “gremlin” was right sometimes.

Olberic sipped at his lemon water before turning his head to the left. “Ah,” he said, pointing, “there it is - what is left of the Azelhart Mansion.”

“What is left?” Alfyn cocked his head back. He took a sip of his second beer. Didn’t taste quite as good like back in Goldshore. “Looks like there be still plenty of it ‘round to me.”

“The Azelharts were quite an influential family throughout the Flatlands,” Olberic continued, “and the late mayor of Hornburg was quite close with the head of the family. Before his murder, Noblecourt was in a monetary boon and attracted persons of all types to visit. A shame what happened.”

“His _what?_ ” Kit gawked, half-chewed french fries falling from his mouth. “ _Murder?_ ”

“Here I thought you were the be-all know-all of everything spooky, Kit-kat.” Tressa stabbed the remains of her cabbage. 

“I, too, am surprised you did not hear of it. News about the incident travelled throughout Orsterra in a blaze. The Azelharts were well loved.” Olberic stroked his chin. “Mayor Alfred was quite distressed about it, too - especially since they could not locate the young daughter or her remains anywhere. Nor the murderers themselves.”

“Oh, _yikes._ Ya think they kidnapped ‘er or somethin’?”

“It is the most prevalent idea, and from my understanding, the Orsterran government initiated a continent-wide search for her. But,” he sighed, “nothing of the girl turned up. All trails led to dead ends.”

“Therion,” Alfyn said after a hard swallow, “yer job ain’t related to any of _this,_ is it?”

Therion shot him a glare as a stern reminder of the “no questions” clause they agreed to. But, after a moment and with everyone awaiting his response, he shook his head. “No. I’m here for something else. If it is related, it’s news to me.”

“To think you can straight-up just murder an official and get _away_ with it,” Kit said in disbelief. 

“Orsterra’s underbelly is as vast as it is dark.” Olberic set his cutlery down onto the table and pushed the emptied plate away. “There are many crimes throughout the land unaccounted for. That is why it is imperative for those in power to have proper defences.”

“You’d think the Internet would, like, deter crime somehow.” Tressa fiddled with her phone. “Especially when there’s so many ways to catch people in the act.”

To that, Therion shook his head and forced down another bite of his fruit salad. The grapes remained largely untouched. Alfyn helped himself to one, then another, while Therion chipped in, “The Internet’s just provided another venue to do dirty work. If anything, it’s made shit a lot _easier_ to get away with. The law’s not even ready to deal with crap in reality, let alone digitally.”

“Well!” Tressa rose from her seat, puffed her chest, and placed her hands on her hips. “Lucky for the law, for they have the power of us on their side! Between those scalpers and that jerk-lady Ms. Hysel, hooligans are no match for our dream-team! We’ll kick evildoers to the curb and lambaste them on _every_ social media platform imaginable, or my name isn’t Tressa Colzione!” 

“It’s not. Pretty sure it’s Gremlin McMoneybags.”

“ _Hey._ ”

Problem was, even _with_ their so-called “dream team,” Ms. Hysel still managed to get away. Poison gas or not, he should’ve tried harder to give pursuit, to stop her operations once and for all. He took another small bite of his reuben. But Therion was also right. Should she decide to try and pull her tricks again, Alfyn would stop her. Somehow. Or Ms. Hysel may even have a change of heart and start using her pharmacist skills for good. 

Probably not, though.

(“You gotta stop stressing over shit you can’t control, Alf.” Zeph shook his head and pushed aside the dossier filled to the brim with a hodgepodge of medical information. “If he ain’t gonna quit smoking, that’s his decision. Just focus on what you _can_ do, and what you can do later will come later, you know? Cross the bridge when you get there.”)

Right. Focus on the now. Right now, Therion had a job to do, Tressa wanted to see the carnival, and they had to get to Victor’s Hollow in a reasonable amount of time for Olberic. Easy enough. Anything that cropped up along the way, he’d take care of then. He nodded to himself a few times, eyes closed and stroking his chin.

“Uh-oh. Alf’s doing an old man pose.” Tressa grinned. “Thinking about playing a spot o’ cribbage there, pal? Maybe want to go play bingo this weekend?”

“Cribbage actually ain’t sound like a bad idea,” Alfyn replied, then stretched. He wiggled his nose - it hurt less today, the soreness ebbing into a dulled pain - before pulling out his wallet. “I’ll pay fer tonight, an’ then I gotta hit the sack. M’ _beat._ ”

“You’ll pay tomorrow too, right?” Her eyes glimmered at the prospect of free “super-duper expensive” popcorn. “Riiiight? For little ol’ me, your new bestie?”

“Sure, sure.” He laughed and flagged the waiter down. “Whatever ya say.”

***

( _ **“Do you feel it,”**_ says a voice distorted into a pale imitation of sound. _**“Do you feel the fleeting last moments of your mortality fade with your precious ‘light.’”**_

Alfyn inhales sharply, exhales slowly, feels the prickling numbness succumbing him, feels the half-melted ice tickling his fingertips. The stars are falling. The stars fall, and batter the oozing mass of flesh pulsing in an irregular heartbeat, and Ophilia, she calls forth Aelfric, the Flamebringer, his gifts washing over them, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. The dark, it’s - 

He sits up. Someone helps him sit up. He gasps, wheezes, his insides patched back up with a wash of healing magic and patching up the lacerations with freshly regenerated skin, and he squeezes the life out of his broken axe’s neck. He coughs a few times, feels the Lion’s Dance invigorate him, and he shouts, he yells, he barrels forward with his last stand against a sky-full of vengeance and hatred and boiling, simmering rage.

 _ **“Where are they now, your precious gods,”**_ the Dark One asks, a torrent of viscera spewing forth from its many unhinged jaws, _**“where were they then, your precious friends,”**_ the Dark One asks, and the corpses interwoven with its beating reddened flesh wail in unison, _ **“where were they, when you needed them most, when you begged and pled and bargained, and all you got - where were they when you fell,”**_ the Dark One asks, and Alfyn’s choking, they’re all choking, the air putrid, the void yawning, the cloying hands pulling at the tatters that comprise his clothes, the axe embedded in a mutilated mesh of a body but there is no reaction, no hope, no point - 

_**“Where will they be,”**_ the Dark One asks, the pitch deafening, the desperation mounting, the veins in the omniscient eye bulging, _ **“when they die.”**_

 ** __** _“Run,”_ Alfyn says, locking eyes with a petrified Therion, the cries louder now, drowning out his own shaking voice, _“Run -”_ )

He jerked awake in a fit of gasps and sweat, widened eyes staring at the banister overhead. His hands clawed at the blankets to pry them off, and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, touching the carpeting with his toes to feel grounded once more. What the hell was that? He glanced at the clock on the wall and squinted to make it out: _3:46 AM._ Damn. He hated waking up so close to morning that it felt pointless to try to sleep again. Not that he felt like he could in the first place.

He walked over to the bathroom, took a quick piss and ran the sink full of cold water, fingers remembering the sensation of ice forming on the tips. For a moment, it felt - he frowned at himself in the mirror - it felt _familiar,_ like conjuring magic out of thin air held genuine plausibility. The Dark One, like… Galdera, was it? Maybe talking about all them legends earlier triggered some sort of reaction. Ophilia who? He didn’t know any Ophilia. He splashed his face, the remnants of the nightmare chased out with the chill, before shuffling back to bed. 

In it laid Therion.

Oh.

Oh. Oh no. Oh, crap. Oh _crap._ He almost forgot - or blatantly ignored it when he crashed into bed earlier. _I’ll deal with it later,_ he thought! _It won’t be as big a deal as ya think,_ he thought! Well, past Alfyn, you sure critically failed a perception check, with your D-20 landing on a wonderful whopping one. He nervously scratched the back of his head. Therion curled up on his side, the white mop of his hair poking out of his makeshift blanket cocoon. A pillow served as a divider, splitting the mattress territory clearly in half.

He swallowed hard. In the background, Tressa grumbled and rolled over, her snoring filling in the suffocating gaps of silence. He steeled his resolve and stepped forward once, twice, before creeping back to the bed and easing onto the mattress, as to not disturb his sleeping partner. Gods alive. If he held any doubts about his crush before, they certainly scurried off into the night before promptly getting eaten by moths. 

Okay, so what, though? Therion’s cute. He’s got that air of mystery, a hint of a bad boy in his every move, and (try as he might to pretend otherwise) kept a certain reserved kindness close to his chest, sneaking out only when he suspected no one noticed. Yeah. He could live with that knowledge, even if it unnerved him. Wouldn’t amount to much beyond that, though; he knew how this played out. Crush on a guy, they’re not bi, and they get married to your other childhood friend (who you may or may not have had a crush on too for a little bit).

He mushed his own cheeks. That was unfair. Zeph and Mercedes were happy, and he was genuinely happy for them, his own hang-ups aside. Feelings inevitably changed, and Alfyn awaited the day it permanently shifted from “I’m in love with you” to “I used to be in love with you.” Past tense. Then again, that was already happening now - but he still couldn’t determine if he just latched onto his crush on Therion as a crutch to support himself through his own idiocy. Even if - in a hypothetical world - Therion shared similar sentiments, it wouldn’t be fair to him if Alfyn couldn’t sort himself out.

So for now, emotional limbo. A rock in a hard place.

(“Alf, what be wrong? You’re cryin’. Aw, c’mere, kiddo.” Ma scooped him up in her strong arms, hefting him like a sack of potatoes. “Just let it all out - can’t grow none if ya get stuck in your own feelios, yeah? Ain’t no shame in bein’ overwhelmed or upset. Just ride it out ‘til ya feel better, then go an’ try an’ work through it, ‘kay? And if I can help ya, just say the word.” She grinned. “‘Specially if it be any bullies. I’ll make them eat mud for makin’ my sunshine cry.”

 _“Ma,_ ” he replied, sniffling, but smiling all the same.

“A’ight, fine, I’ll be a wee bit kinder then. How ‘bout makin’ ‘em eat grass instead? That fair game?”)

Sheesh, she sure did resort to violence sometimes. The memory causes a quiet chuckle to escape him before he reached for his battered, charging cellphone. No service. Figures. He decided to hash out a text message anyways, fighting with the cracks to see the keyboard clearer:

 **Me:** Hey zeph

 **Me:** Good morning it is early here I am very tired but I hope u have good day and wanted to let know I am thinking about you and merc and nina and home

He paused. Man, he missed little ol’ Clearbrook so damn much. Sure, it wasn’t as fantastical or deep as other places they’ve visited so far, but nothing quite beat the sound of the river, the treks through unmarked trails leading into the woods, and the fresh blueberry pies his neighbors used to give him. He loved it to bits.

 **Me:** when I come back we’re gonna make pies 2gether

 **Me:** *mercy will make pies becuz I am suck at baking let’s be honest hahahaha

 **Me:** take care + be safe 

_Message sending error: error 403 (no service). Please relocate to an area with service. For support, please contact…_

It would send eventually. Maybe not today, but maybe tomorrow - who knew? He put the phone back on the nightstand and rolled onto his back, gaze shifting to the mound named Therion beside him. All was well - and if not today, maybe tomorrow it would be. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and closed his eyes before they immediately snapped back open.

Something was wrong.

“Therion?”

He sat up and peered at the blanket mountain. Beneath the duvet, Therion shivered, body curling tighter together. Alfyn’s brow furrowed before pressing a hand against Therion’s forehead.

Scorching.

“Therion,” he said, urgency rising in his hushed voice. He rolled Therion onto his back, seeing the flush burned deep despite the darkness in the room, and ground his teeth together. The flu? Could it incubate that quickly? His breathing sounded wrong, too, quiet and quick like he couldn’t get enough air. Sweat beaded along his forehead, dribbling onto the pillow, but he looked like he was _freezing._

Crap. Alfyn hurried for his bag and pulled out his notebook, yanking on the lamp’s chain to read better. High fever, chills, elevated breathing - it kind of sounded like pneumonia, but that hardly made sense and a half. Except. He frowned. They were out in the rain for some time, and in a damp cave, but would that be enough to cause it? Unless Therion had an innate disposition for susceptible lungs. But the signs would have cropped up a bit later with this severity. And more obviously; the lack of a cough might very well toss the initial diagnosis out the window.

His brain wracked for possible answers - _allergic reaction? Severe cold? Any way ya slice it, we gotta get him to the hospital_ \- when the impending patient-in-question groaned and sat up. 

“Who turned on the light,” he croaked, and tried to get up to turn off his irritation of the hour.

“Whoa, buddy, slow it down there.” Alfyn abandoned his book and went over to Therion’s side. “You’re not doing so hot, so ya need to - uh?”

An even stranger and _baffling_ turn of events caused the sleepy cogs in Alfyn’s brain to jam up. 

All the symptoms - they vanished. Alfyn pressed a hand against Therion’s forehead once more, stunned at the usual temperature it should be obtaining dominance over the fever. _How?_ What even…?

“What are you on about now, quack.” Therion yawned and shoved his arm aside. “Turn off the damn light. Can’t sleep with it on. It’s stupid early, go back to bed.”

Maybe he imagined it? Alfyn blinked a few times and gave a sheepish laugh. He wandered back over to the lamp, flicked it off, and closed the book. A half-asleep nightmare, possibly? Therion watched him get back into bed before huffing and pulling over the duvet once again.

“Ya feelin’ okay?”

“I’ll feel better if you shut up and let me sleep.”

“Alright, alright. Sorry, just - thought somethin’ was wrong, is all.”

A few rustles of the blankets, and Therion settled back into bed. Then, after a few beats, a quiet “ _Oh,_ ” followed by an abrupt stampede to the bathroom. Alfyn’s anxieties shot up to the moon and plummeted straight back into his body as he followed Therion, who made it to the sink before retching up the blackest vomit they ever saw.

“Huh,” said Therion, voice teetering between amazement and confusion, before proceeding to fall sideways and collapsing into a heap on the floor.


	17. luce prima

The small Riverland town, with its minimal light pollution, showcased a brilliance of constellations when the moon turned new and when the clouds cleared. Most still remained trapped in the sky. Some, with nary a soul noticing, fell in a fury of streaking reds and whites, burning up in the stratosphere. Meteor showers, they call them. Meteors are but asteroids - hunks of rocks drifting aimlessly in the sea of space - that flew almost too close for comfort. Or so the scientists said. 

For the most part, they were correct. But right now, as she stared upward into the ever-darkening night, another hellish red burned in a momentary flash before disappearing altogether.

The Twelve were losing.

She glanced back at the apartment building, where the home of one old friend resided, where he already grabbed a few scant belongings and decided to travel the world. So said a neighbor of his, and the landlord. (“I’m sure he’ll come a-runnin’ back home in a month or so, lass. Wanna share some tea?”)

There wouldn’t _be_ a “month or so” at this rate. She sucked a sharp breath between clenched teeth and willed herself to chin up. Each of her friends may have already left, sure, but she still had _some_ time, which was better than _no_ time. Orsterra, for all its berth, only stretched so wide for all eight of them to traverse. She was bound to find at least one of them soon enough to aid her in a seemingly lost cause. When she first regained consciousness, she took a gamble on which direction to take and lost. Now she would never find them idle. All she could cling to was the hope that perhaps their paths would mirror the ones of the past - so long as she was quick enough to catch up.

_You may as very well give up, child._

She pointedly ignored the gleeful apparition niggling in the tucked away recesses of her thoughts. Her mind tightened its grips on the reigns before forcing herself to follow the path back to her horse that blended in with the skies. The horse’s ears flicked, alert, and whinnied quietly in hesitation.

“It is all right, Luna,” she whispered, a gloved hand stroking its mane, “it is me. Not her.”

Luna snorted in approval, its tail flicking to bat the incessant flies that refused to leave it alone. Poor girl. Spring and summer were never easy for horses. She hoisted herself up onto the saddle and stifled an oncoming yawn behind her hand. Sleep could come when she perished. She rummaged through her pack and chewed several pomegranate seeds brimming with juices that squirted from her lips. Renewed energy seared through her, pouring into every vein and aching muscle.

 _Mattias will fulfill our duties,_ the voice hissed. _You cannot possibly hope to stop destiny. You cannot bind me forever._

She did not bother to argue. She was not wrong, perse; Lyblac already assumed control on numerous occasions, submerging her own consciousness into the screaming void during the first phase of revival. In fact, she should not have the strength to fight back in the first place, but - 

( _ **“Mine child, thee who walks in mine light.”**_ Aelfric’s overwhelming presence sent tremors through her wavering soul. _ **“Mine child, consumed by the dark - rise, and see to thine truest purpose.”**_

“My truest,” she repeated, hand outstretched to the pillar of white before her, “purpose.”

 _ **“Aye,”**_ said He, _**“mine own Deliverance.”**_ )

\- but Aelfric’s Sacred Flame sputtering within her refused to die.

 _It will,_ Lyblac hissed. _You shall see._

To that, she smiled. The arbiter of all things chaos seemed irate over failing to control her vessel in totality. A good thing, too; otherwise, Lyblac would have informed Mattias her only advantage of “hiding in plain sight.”

“You sound awfully peeved for someone bound to be the winner.”

_You Sisters are the bane of our existence, perpetuating the false narrative all of humanity is shackled to. When will you see the reality? When the fog lifts from your vision, then you will understand the truth!_

“I’m afraid your own ideas of ‘truth’ are only justifications for your father’s twisted idea of justice,” she replied, steering Luna down the path alit with fireflies. Lyblac’s angered retorts quieted into mere unintelligible gibberish, leaving her to her own thoughts. Mattias no doubt already set the Dark One’s plan in motion with his time-advantage, meaning she now needed to find Alfyn as soon as possible. If the seed festered for too long, then - then. She bit her bottom lip. The need for Kit would be rendered moot, and -

(“Shucks, ya want me to come ‘long? Even though y’all have seven in yer group already? Sure I won’t slow ya down none?”)

Therion would never forgive her, no doubt.

It was her fault he got roped into it in the first place. She needed to take responsibility for her sins, dating one thousand years ago in a world that no longer existed. He deserved better than how it all ended. They all did. And she would see to it, if it was the last thing she ever did. Such was the duty of a Sister, no matter how far fallen from grace she may become, and no matter how much time had passed.

She tucked the loose, curled black strands behind her ear and gazed upon another falling star, wretched and tormented in its elongated descent. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic will be on hiatus until further notice. apologies. hopefully it will not be for too long. cheers!


	18. w ? ?ds? ?? ld

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy y'all! see it wasn't so long after all. I got new Tips & Tricks to help combat the uhhhh continual "hands wanna die" pains, and lo and behold, they no longer hurt! which means! I can write! hurray! thank y'all for all y'alls kind words and kudos and niceness and understandings, I super-dee-duper appreciate it. and so! without further ado, here be ch. 18 - pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!
> 
> !!tw: body horror!!

**“Doth thee,”** spoke a disembodied voice echoing in the expanding mauve landscape, **“desire to live?”**

Its tone sounded non-threatening - rather, it was laced with curiosity and sprinkled with expectation. While Therion specialized in disappointment alongside a master’s degree in evading answering questions he didn’t like, this particular inquiry roused him from a strange stupor. His usual deflection tactics fell to the wayside in favor of confusion and mild irritation: _where the hell am I? Who the fuck are you? Leave me the hell alone, I’ve already had a shit-tastic day._

 **“Doth thee desire to live?”** it asked again, patiently, and without a single change in inflection. 

He took a moment to observe his surroundings - within the pulsing mesh of purples, his feet sank ankle-deep into contorted fleshy limbs, a splash of red seeping through every festering wound. His immediate reaction was _gross_ followed by a nonplussed _sure as hell am glad I’m not this hellscape’s janitor._ Sure, it was unnerving, but between Kit showing him stupid horror videos from the Internet and his own penchant for walking into bloodbaths in the seedier parts of different towns, this was a walk in the park. A walk in the park, he reminded himself to spite the urge to puke up what remained of his dinner. Seriously, how the hell did he end up here? Wasn’t he just in the bathroom with Alfyn? 

Another beat passed, and he was able to process the words asked of him:

Did he?

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

A part of him didn’t. He knew that much the day the steep ravines opened wide with its crooked teeth yearning to bite him, to bleed him dry, after a set of once-beloved hands pushed him over the precipice of its lips. He and his hopes of belonging plummeted into its depths, an earth-shattering cacophony of bones collapsing in on one another upon impact.

He should have died then.

He didn’t die then.

By all accounts, it made no sense how he lived then.

**“Doth thee wisheth to?”**

A part of him did. He dragged himself from the crimson pool staining his clothes, using the one good arm to drag his premature corpse through mud and grime toward - toward somewhere. Toward something. Toward someone, anyone, anybody - (can anybody hear him? can anyone hear how loud, how ragged, how heavy each blood-laden breath exhaled from his ground teeth is, the ringing in his head so deafening it almost drowns out the ghastly imitation of what could be considered sobs?)

If he made it this far, then why give up now? 

“What’s it to you,” he replied.

**“In this state, thy life is in peril.”**

“What else is new,” he replied.

A pause. Therion couldn’t tell if the current nuisance of the hour pestering him with nonsense was amused or annoyed. If the latter, that made two of them. He dared to lift a leg up from the goo composed of melted skin and nearly wobbled into its unwelcome embrace. Okay. Standing still sounded like the peachiest-keen idea. He settled for folding his arms across his chest.

 **“In this state, thy life is in peril,”** the voice repeated, then elaborated: **“Thy corse shalt host the dark thee did seek to long-since destroy. Shalt not taketh long before thy life is forfeit.”**

Well that certainly didn’t sound like a fun time. “I take it you’re blabbing at me to tell me you’ve got a way to make it so that I don’t do the dying thing, am I right.” 

**“Thou art most astute, young Therion.”**

“Thanks. I get told it’s my charm point. Really wins the ladies over.”

 **“Ladies?”** asked the voice, a peculiar confusion overtaking its all-knowing smart-assery, then apparently decided to not press further. **“Young Therion, I ask of thee again: doth thee desire to live?”**

His eye narrowed. “At what cost exactly.”

 **“Thee corse hast already succumbed many times to hardships, and thee did survive regardless. Alas, thee cannot stave the foul beast within thee anon, the creature ravaging within. Thee shall lose without mine own aide.”** A flicker sparked in the darkening sky, and descended like a falling star. Therion reflexively (subconsciously) reached out, opening both hands to balance the sputtering flare dancing in his palms. **“And I, too, shalt lose without thy aide. A mutual benefit.”**

This thing sure had a way of speaking in riddles and never quite giving a clear answer. Hah. It was like looking into a mirror, really. “So you’re saying the cost is whatever the fuck you want it to be, since I don’t really have a choice.”

 **“Such was ordained one thousand years past. Thee did choose this on behalf of this future. Thee came to me, young Therion,”** said the voice, emanating from the fallen star, **“and thee pled to save thee. Time, and time, and time again, until the last when it was no longer for thee, but for them. For him.”**

The ground shook. The star wavered in his hands as Therion struggled to retain balance, his heels digging into muck. Nothing made sense, and he doubted - no, he knew - he knew that this twinkly little shit wasn’t going to elaborate on the details.

“I don’t give a damn about the past or whatever. The only thing that matters is right now. Just give me the TL:DR.”

 **“Walk one with light,”** it said, **“and thee shalt no longer fear the dark within.”**

“Fun fact,” he said, albeit with less condescending bravado than he hoped, “I was never afraid of the dark.”

But he understood what had to be done next. The instructions, unlike the star’s half-assed flowery old-timer riddles, were clear as day. Whatever this thing was, he needed to - he needed to not let whatever grew within him now destroy him from the inside-out.. And like a prayer, this light--

 **“Do not,”** cried another voice, one wretched and desperate, **“listen to his lies!”**

 **“Lies befit no god, o Dark One,”** said the star - wait, what.

**“Do not, you mustn’t, you can’t!”**

**“Thee trickery shalt not deceive he, for he understands what thou _art,”_** said the star.

No, he didn’t. There was so much he wanted to understand, but - “What are _you?”_

The ocean of limbs decided then to flail, to rise and claw and seize at his legs, his waist, his shoulders, pulling him down down _down_ ( _Saintsbridge is fall-ling d_ ) to become one with them, to become a sacrifice to the dead beneath his feet, and he squawked, he stumbled, he _flailed_ and teetered backward in suspended seconds toward a watery grave, but instincts, honed from days upon months upon years, kicked in while the cries of **Do not, do _not, you shall never!_** wailed in a harmony akin to sickly old men in a long-forgotten church’s choir as he shoved the star beyond his lips, felt it sting on his tongue, felt it _burn_ in his throat, felt it _b u r s t_ in his chest, felt it _E R U P T_ in the sinews and synapses and skin that kept him together, all to live, he must live, he wanted to _live_ \- 

**“Thou shall,”** promised the star, and everything in his mind’s eye burned to naught but ash.

***

“Therion?” Alfyn breathed, and oh shit - oh shit, Therion _wasn’t._

Well, not well, at any rate; the upheaval of his chest with each rapid breath between beats of _not_ was nothing short of worrying. Aflyn rolled him onto his back, ensuring the sudden tumble to the floor didn’t crack open his poor skull, before freezing. The guck that splattered across the sink and onto the floor looked like - hells, it looked like his very own organs (kidneys? intestines?) were ejected right out of his own body. But that would imply that, somehow, they got filtered through the stomach and wormed their way out the esophagus? And besides the _impossible,_ how was Therion still - well - halfway alive if that were the case?

“Shit, shit shit -” Alfyn ran a hand through his tangled hair, “ - hospital. We gotta get ‘im to a hospital, ASAP -”

And then it happened.

In a second between Tressa’s groggy “what’s going on” and Alfyn’s own freaked out babble, a noise that could only be compared to a rabbit being mutilated by a flock of eagles emitted from he assumed to be Therion, but at the same time, it _wasn’t_ him. The sound was followed by a distinct “pop.” Alfyn slapped both hands over his ears, a gasp escaping him at the sudden _pain_ and _ringing_ trapped within his skull. His eyes squeezed reflexively shut, but managed to glimpse the first of many spasms ravaging throughout Therion’s body first.

Gods alive, what the hell was happening?

He felt - he felt a hand, Tressa’s hand, small but firm, almost squeeze the life out of his shoulder in an effort to get his attention. Actually, to _pull_ him back - she jerked him away from Therion, shouting garbled words he could not make out, before willing his damn eyes to open.

A dripping shadow greeted him, emerging from - from _somewhere_ in Therion, the origin unknown, but it was _staring_ at him, gangly arms _reaching_ for him, coarse whispers carelessly saying sweet-nothings to beckon Alfyn closer. 

**“With me,”** it said, clawed hands unfurling, an elongated smile unhinging, peculiar gaps in between its teeth exposing nothingness, **“with me,”** it said, leaning closer, and Tressa’s screaming bloody murder now, urging Alfyn to get up (but he couldn’t move, his gaze transfixed, his legs cement) , **“with me,”** it demanded, its many or no eyes simultaneously opening wide or closing shut, its tone displeased, its two twelve twenty hands ensnaring around Alfyn’s throat, **“you belong to _me”_** -

A flash disrupted time itself into a frightening standstill. The enclosed space became a blinding white, engulfing all it touched, before evaporating into a dull, duller, dullest sparkle dribbling between Therion’s parted lips. The bathroom - albeit messier than before - returned to a perturbing normalcy, sporting no signs of the creeping demon that thirsted for Alfyn for whatever reason.

Silence.

Then, a deep breath. 

“What,” his thoughts managed to churn out, “the flyin’ _fuck_ was that?”

“I-I,” Tressa stammered, skin pale, “h-h-have no idea, uh, I’m, um -”

Therion groaned, and they both grew rigid. Their heads turned robotically to him, eyes wide and teeth clenched in preparation for the worst. He stirred, upper body lifting up, hands splayed on the tiled floor to support himself. Tressa inched behind Alfyn, an audible swallow bobbing in her throat. 

“Th-Therion?” she whispered.

“You, uh, doin’ okay there, buddy?”

Therion’s eye opened slowly, its green color an odd comfort, before flicking upward to stare back at them. “What,” he replied, trying and horrendously failing to sound normal. His arms quaked in strained effort to keep himself upright. Still, he scowled. “I’m fine.”

Well. At least it was _him_ , at any rate. Only Therion could sound so pissed at the prospect of anyone being possibly concerned about him.

“Tress.” Alfyn pulled off a halfway reassuring smile. “Could ya do me a solid an’ fetch him a glass of water or somethin’? Should be some bottles chillin’ in the fridge. An’ flick the light on on yer way out.”

She gratefully took the cue and scrambled out of the bathroom. Alfyn counted to three, trying to calm himself down, before kneeling beside Therion. He pressed a hand on the small of Therion’s back to support him, sneaking glimpses of any sign of pain, sickness, or possible demonic possession. The silence, after all that noise, sounded strange, but he couldn’t find the will to speak or ask any questions to disrupt it.

Tressa’s pitter-patter grew distant, then closer, followed by the sloshing of a water bottle. She hesitated and peeked into the bathroom before tip-toeing inside. Therion swiped the water bottle from her hands and chugged it, then crunched the plastic between his hands. He groaned.

“I feel like shit,” he admitted.

“I know yer gonna say no, but,” Alfyn gestured to the viscera nearby, “I _really_ an’ _highly fuckin’ recommend_ ya go to the hospital.”

Therion made a face at the black spatter. Still, after only a second’s deliberation: “No.”

“Figures. A’ight,” Alfyn ran a hand through his own hair, “do ya remember, like, anything that just happened in the past ten minutes?”

“No. I.” Therion frowned and looked at his hands. They opened and closed a few times. “I feel like I forgot something important. But.” He rubbed at his cheek, as if tender, before combing through his bangs. “The more I sit here, the less sick I feel. I don’t -”

“ _Whoa,”_ Tressa interrupted, her fears discarded for awe while her finger jabbed in Therion’s direction, “what’s going on with your eye?”

Therion rolled his eye - eyes? Eyes. Two of them, instead of a mass of scar tissue that he managed to see only once before. Alfyn stared when Therion allowed his bangs to fall in front of his face again. “None of your business, gremlin. I--wait.” He waved one of his own hands in front of the left side of his face. Then, after a momentary confusion, he got onto his feet, gripped the edge of the sink with one hand (blatantly ignoring the gross blackness within), and brushed aside his hair with the other.

In the glass staring back at all three of them was one green eye and one silver, the pupil shaped strangely like a diamond.

“What the hell is this.” 

“Iiiiii guess demonic possession comes with a free eyeball upgrade?” Tressa answered tentatively.

Therion opened his mouth to probably dismiss what she said as childish nonsense, but thought better of it when he glanced at the vomit he produced. His teeth clacked shut. The uncomfortable silence returned.

“What happened,” Therion finally asked, gaze downcast.

“Ya got sick, collapsed, then,” Alfyn swallowed hard, “some kinda goopity guy came out? An’ then it vanished? Truth be told, I ain’t sure what I saw actually happened or not. I feel like I’m kinda stuck in some kinda _dream._ Tress might know better, I kinda, uh,” he shrugged helplessly, “zoned out there for a sec.”

( **With me. You belong to -** )

“ _Me?_ I just came in and you were spasming like crazy, Therion! And then the shadow-monster-thing came right out from your stomach, like - kablooey!” She flapped her arms in a dramatic reenactment of the kablooage. “And then it, uh. It looked ready to _eat_ you, Alfyn. And then something happened? I don’t know, it just!” She flapped her arms again. “And now we’re here! Confused as all get-out! And it’s not even breakfast time yet, and I already want to sleep for twelve more hours! _Me._ Sleep _in._ That’s a horror in of itself, I’ll have you know!”

Her attempts of lightening the mood were much appreciated, even if it was in vain. Therion’s grip on the sink shifted, and he shook his head. A strange noise - a snort? A laugh? - shook through him with another shake of his head. 

“Buddy?” Alfyn tried. His hand lifted, urged to give him another shoulder pat, but second-guessed himself and allowed it to drop by his side. “Everythin’ alright?”

Therion shrugged and didn’t reply. Instead, he released the sink from his clutches and brushed them by as if nothing strange ever happened.

“Therion,” Alfyn tried again, “are ya feelin’ okay, a lot just kinda happened an’ -”

“I’m tired and I have a lot of shit I need to do tomorrow.” Therion gave a dismissive wave as his heels scuffed along the floor back to the bed. “I feel fine now, so leave me alone. I’ll clean up the mess tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not really a normal reaction to all that, is it?” Tressa whispered behind her hand. “We’re not just going to pretend nothing happened, are we? Alf?”

No. No, it wasn’t. But Therion didn’t want to talk about it, and certainly didn’t seem to trust them enough to share what he actually felt. Why would he? They knew each other for, what, less than a month? It shouldn’t be all that surprising. Still - still. Alfyn’s mouth opened, ready to challenge Therion, but found himself unable to. What was there to even say to someone who refused to communicate? Could bring a beaver to the forest, but couldn’t make it chuck wood.

“Alright,” Alfyn said instead, “but if ya start feelin’ funky, ya better share, a’ight?”

Therion crawled underneath the blankets. “I’ll think about it.” 

So that was a “no.”

Tressa’s eyebrows knitted together, worried, and Alfyn just bit his bottom lip in frustration.

If Therion wouldn’t trust them, then they just had to trust his judgment no matter how much they didn’t like it.

For now.

***

He couldn’t sleep, so Alfyn took it upon himself to do something useful.

Cleaning the bathroom while the other two slept (or pretended to) stirred up more questions than answers. Yes, the blackened contents were a mixture of blood, food, and most importantly, integral vital organs that appeared to have been grounded together in some hellish blender. Alfyn asked for some biohazard bags and gloves at the Front Desk, who at least spared him the dignity of having to explain, “Oh, I think my travel buddy be possessed by the fuckin’ monster of the Black Lagoon an’ somehow replaced some of his body parts, no biggie. Could I get some extra towels?”

Nothing - _nowhere_ they went involved any sort of dark magic or whatever, either. If anything, Kit, Tressa, and Olberic had the most likelihood of being hijacked by ghosts - which weren’t even real in the first place. But, after seeing something like _that_ ( **with me,** echoed the memory of that thing’s voice, and for a fleeting second, Alfyn _wanted_ to go with it, and that made even _less_ sense, but no thinking about it right now), it was kind of hard to deny the plausibility of their existence. So how Therion? Something that happened even before they started traveling together? No, his eye was definitely gone when they headed off from Clearbrook. 

His sickness started, what, back in Goldshore, right? Alfyn scooped up some questionable-looking guck and dropped it into the bright orange bag with an unceremonious “plop.” They arrived, they learned of the flu Ms. Hysel “cured,” they essentially chased her off… nothing in any of those moments rang suspicious. Tressa and the other two staked out the Church, he and Therion swung by a tavern, and - 

(The bells hanging over the front door rang. Alfyn lifted his head, and, _wow,_ hello sir, looking mighty fine for someone dressed like they belonged in some timepiece romance flick, he could woo Alfyn _any_ day - a drink? Yeah, why the hell not, he’s only had a few, the night’s still young, what’s your name Mr. Dreamboat, Matthew? Matt. What a good, solid name. Bartender placed something on the counter, Matthew slid it over to Alfyn, smiling, a husky twinkle in his eyes inviting him to take a swig of temptation, Alfyn reached -)

Therion drank.

Alfyn’s hands stilled, and his brow furrowed. Therion drank. Therion got drunk much quicker than anticipated. Therion, even with a tonic to help remedy the hangover, steadily began displaying more and more symptoms of something gone wrong. It had to be then. It had to be that specific moment, that moment meant for _Alfyn._

A complete stranger wanted to harm him. A torrent of questions kicked up in a howling blizzard within his skull, battering against the bone with _whats_ and _whys_ and _how comes._ Part of him wanted to dismiss the assumption that the drink was laced with something, but the more he contemplated, replayed, and revisited that memory, the more certain he became. What _was_ it? While Alfyn often thought magic lingered in their world within the soils that provided them with a bounty of healing fruit and nuts, he never actually imagined it to be more than that. No science he ever briefly glazed over could explain what happened.

So magic, then. Magic had to exist for actual real, somehow. And that Matthew knew how to use it and did so to - what, try to turn Alfyn but actually Therion into a demon? It worked for all of half a minute before the flash. Yeah, what the hell was that, too? It appeared out of nowhere - he glanced upward at the unscathed ceiling - from above. After that, Therion was normal again, albeit - he glanced downward at the stains around his feet - not entirely. 

It didn’t make sense. He might be smart in the medicine and body department, but anything else flew over his head. The most he could conclude was maybe Matthew was another agent of Ms. Hysel sent to try and gank him, but at that point, she didn’t even _know_ about Alfyn yet. Yeah, no, he needed to leave the detective work to the youngsters. He’d keep going around in circles ad nauseam.

Speaking of circles. He stopped trying to get the stain out of the sink and stretched. The first inklings of sunshine began lightening the skies beyond the billowing curtains, a soft breeze fluttering - wait.

Alfyn squinted.

Weren’t the windows closed?

“‘Lo?” he called softly. The alarm didn’t ring yet. Tress replied in a soft snuffle of a snore, but the other bed, vacated of any bodies, remained silent.

Oh no.

He abandoned his cleaning supplies and stuck his head out the open window, scouring every spot he could see from such a height. How the hell did Therion leave without Alfyn hearing him, or without even a parting word? More importantly, why by himself after all that? Or maybe - a creeping panic seized him - maybe the thing in Therion hijacked his body while he slept?

Alfyn was halfway out the window to give chase to a phantom when the bedroom door opened.

“Uh,” Therion said, perplexed, “what the hell are you doing, quack.”

“Therion?” Alfyn banged his head against the window. He groaned and rubbed the forming bump while managing a sheepish laugh. In Therion’s hands was a tray - _complimentary breakfast starts at five,_ said the desk clerk - filled with different goodies. “When did - but -”

“This is the third floor. I’m not desperate enough to ‘escape’ or whatever idiot thoughts you got in your head to jump out the window when there’s perfectly good stairs ten sticks away and you have the perception of a blind squirrel.” His voice sounded clearer and less sickly than before. “I got hungry since I ejected every food I’ve ever eaten in my lifetime, and you were busy, so I got breakfast myself.” His frown deepened. “I thought you liked sleeping.”

“I do.”

“Could’ve fooled me. When did you take up a part-time position in housekeeping.” He set the tray down on the nightstand. Every movement seemed very Therion-like and not evil demon pretending to be his pal-like. 

Therion sighed, as if having read Alfyn’s mind. “It’s _me,_ quack. Chill.”

“I think ya bein’ a bit _too_ chill, y’know? I mean, I’d be freakin’ the fuck out, knowin’ some weird shit went down when I blacked out.”

“Mm.”

Ah. A lightbulb _dinged_ in his head. Which didn’t make sense, because lightbulbs never _dinged,_ but Ma said it all the time and now - anyways. “I get it. Ya _are_ freakin’ out, but in just, y’know, a Therion way. I getcha. Lemme guess, ya stress-eat? Nah, yer too small fer that. _Oh._ ” He snapped his fingers. “Ya take long walks to distract yerself, am I right? Totally am, ain’t I? I do the same thing too!”

“You’re so weird,” Therion said, but didn’t deny it. So Alfyn was right. For some reason, a bubbling feeling of satisfaction spread through him. “About all that - could you not bring it up to Kit. He’s,” Therion picked up a granola bar, “too nosey sometimes.”

“So, what, ya wanna keep it between us three? Not for nothin’, bud, but Kit’s gonna call ya out on yer eye bein’, y’know, regenerated. That shit don’t just happen normally overnight. Actually, it ain’t usually happen at _all._ ” He paused. “Ya really don’t remember nothin’?”

Therion tore off a chunk of the granola bar with his teeth. After a few chews, he frowned, then picked up the muffin instead. “I think I had a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Or something. I don’t know. I can’t remember anything but fire.” He peeled off the muffin liner and crumpled it up. “It hurt.”

“Yer not s’posed to feel nothin’ in dreams.”

“That’s what they all say.” Therion stared hard at his muffin, picking at one of the baked-in blueberries. “I think they’re liars. Dreams always feel like _something,_ whether you like it or not.”

Huh. Alfyn picked up the half-eaten granola bar and tore an unbitten piece off with his fingers before popping it into his mouth. Not bad. Nowhere near as good as Mrs. Stetson’s, though. “But that’s it?”

A nod. “That’s it. I woke up, and you two were looking at me like I sprouted three testicles for a head.”

“Wh -” Despite himself and everything, Alfyn almost choked midchew in a fit of laughter. He coughed a few times and wheezed. “ _Therion,_ ya can’t just - krff! - _say_ shit like that when I be eatin’, gods, that be _such_ a good one!” 

For a moment, Therion’s lips quirked upward. They were hidden immediately by the muffin. “Other than the eye thing, I’m feeling fine. Better. I feel better than I had in a few days. So.” He shrugged. “Not much I can do about it now. All I can do is look ahead at what I’ve got to do. Ask questions later.”

“Guess that be one way to handle it.”

“The _only_ way to handle it. Can you begin trying to understand ‘demonic possession’ when that’s not even real in the first place. Of course not. I can’t. So until it becomes a problem again, I’m just going to have to treat it like it never happened in the first place. All I care about is that damn flashdrive and getting it back to that stupid rich kid.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a flash of immediate regret crossed his face. Alfyn’s eyebrows raised in surprise and intrigue. “Flashy-whatsit? Rich kid? So ya _ain’t_ workin’ fer the government or nothin’?”

Therion shifted in his seat. He shoved the remains of muffin into his mouth in his best Chippy the Chipmunk impression before standing up. He totally said that on accident, huh. Maybe not understanding what was going on really was getting to him. “No questions clause,” he reminded. “I’m gonna head out and find what I’m looking for. Good luck with the gremlin today.”

“Sorry?” Alfyn blinked. “Yer headin’ off on yer own?”

“I work solo. Besides.” He jabbed a thumb toward Tressa’s sleeping mound. “She owes me a caramel apple. Your job’s to make sure she gets it for me.”

“But -”

“Quack.” He opened the hotel room door and stared at him. The silver eye still perturbed him, somehow so bright and yet unable to catch any light source. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m fine before it gets through to you. If it makes you feel any better,” he toyed with the door handle, “if I start feeling weird or whatever, I’ll - I don’t know, I’ll come to you. And you can work your stupid quack magic to make it all better or something. That’s what you do, so quit freaking out when everything’s okay right now.”

That was a different tune he was singing from earlier in the morning, but damn if it didn’t make Alfyn feel a little bit better. “Promise?”

At first, he didn’t say anything. The birds began chirping outside, and the clock ticked dangerously closer to the alarm disturbing the momentary peace between them.

“Fine,” Therion replied with a curt nod, then closed the door in silence.


	19. s u sp ? ?s ?? ?

A chip in the arm.

A literal god in the head.

A gift in the once-vacant eye socket.

Therion, descending the winding stairway, stopped halfway and peered into the gaudy mirror enshrined by paintings of people long-since passed. His hand on the railing gripped the polished wood almost hard enough to spread cracks along the wax. How much longer? He thought he escaped this fate the day those once-beloved hands pushed him over the cliff. Instead, he finds himself in the palms of others again, pulling him, yanking him into different directions for how to spend what few years he anticipated he had remaining. The Ravuses have his right arm, and now someone else had his left. 

He jerked his head away from staring too hard at his reflection. The new eye, even if it aided his diminished depth-perception, stood out like a sore thumb. It nestled in too well, no burning sensation, no nothing - as if it always belonged there.

He refused to think if it did, even if the cloying whispers of someone Other informed him that maybe - 

**“Dost thee hate me so?”**

“Shut up,” he replied aloud, resuming his way out of the hotel. _Don’t talk to me._

**“Thou werest always prickly.”**

He lied to Alfyn. Really, what other choice was there? If he uttered anything like, _so like, there’s this deity thing talking to me now, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg,_ then Alfyn would never let him go on his own. Even now, Therion paused now and again, head tilting to listen for the telltale _thumps_ of weathered boots accompanied by a _Therion, wait just a hare, lemme come with ya._ And now - now. How the hell was he supposed to face him _now,_ after - after - 

(“Therion.”)

After - 

(“Can we talk? You an’ me?” Alfyn fidgeted a little, running a hand through his wildgrass hair, cheeks red in the campfire light. “There’s somethin’ I wanna, uh. Actually, this be really damn hard to say, so just - gimme a sec to get ready here…”)

_After -_

(??? looked at them, her giant snow leopard by her feet. They exchanged knowing glances and made themselves scarce, retreating back into the pitched tent shared with ???. Alfyn relaxed some, a newfound bravery swelling in the visible inhale puffing his chest, and wiped his palms against his patched pants. Therion waited. He toyed with the pebble next to his foot, kicking it from side to side while Alfyn got his thoughts together.

“I just wanted,” Alfyn started, frowned, then tried again. “I guess I wanna say ‘thank you,’ for back there. After _that._ You ain’t had to do that. You coulda died. If it weren’t for her magic, I ain’t think I coulda saved…” He trailed off, swallowing down something thick.

Therion shrugged. Shrugging was safe where words risked exposing the truth. The deafening _thuds_ of a heartbeat he struggled to understand as his own resonated within the confines of his skull. Still, his own mouth betrayed him when he muttered, “It’s fine. I lived.”

“Still, I just - it scared the shit outta me, Therion.” His voice wavered. “I ain’t - I mean, I don’t wanna lose you. At all.”

They both knew. They both knew, yet neither one of them - Alfyn with his inexperience, Therion gripping onto the past like a lifeline as a way to meander through life unscathed by manipulative bastards who only wanted to use him - could say it. The fire crackled, popped, and Alfyn slumped a little, gazing at his own feet. He picked at the leaf clinging to his trousers and tossed it toward the fire. It missed by a whopping six twigs to the left.

“That thing’s claws would have sunk into your chest,” Therion said, just to fill the growing silence and to drown out his resilient heartbeat that still refused to die. “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”

“If _you_ were just all of two sticks in either direction, _you’d_ have died ‘fore you even hit the ground.” A palpable anguish swallowed up his words, tremors rocking every syllable. “Fuck, Therion. Sorry. I just - that was too damn close. Please,” he lifted his head, and the fires flickered in the warm brown eyes that Therion often found himself lost in these days, “just, promise me you won’t do that shit again. My heart ain’t able to take it.”

Therion rose to his feet, crossing the length of the little clearing between them and stood in front of Alfyn. Alfyn swallowed, the bob in his neck visibly protruding, and tilted his head upward. A beat passed. Two. Therion stared back, brow furrowing, lips opening and closing, a torrent of things he couldn’t say lodged in the back of his throat - )

After the dream. The “dream,” which ended too soon and with little context to go off of. The god living in his head offered some cryptic nonsense as an explanation, but Therion was too tired to understand it then and too stubborn to bother to acknowledge the thing’s existence now. No dream should play as vividly as a memory ( **‘Tis as thou say’st, young Therion** ). Not about _Alfyn._ (‘ **Tis always, ‘tis ever.** ) Not so much that those feelings felt _real_ after he awoke from the fitful bout of sleep he managed to catch.

( **Thou must understand anon.** )

_Shut up! You don’t even pay rent, don’t start injecting yourself into my thoughts!_

He nudged open the hotel’s front door with his shoulder and greeted the nippy morning air with his perpetual scowl. A faint fog lingered over the old city, slowly dispersing with the sun’s return. Gods and otherwise aside, he still had his job to do, revolving around - he grimaced - the _educated_ types. Ones who flashed their degrees like badges of honor as if it automatically granted them higher standings in the invisible social ladder, peering down at their inferiors who lacked the money or patience to pursue such idiocy. They all talked funny, big words that never made sense, ramblings about topics no one truly gave a single flying fuck about.

Anyways. He unfolded the note he clutched onto all this time from back in Clearbrook. _Orlick,_ wrote that bartender, detailing the man’s address. _Noblecourt. Well to-do. Rumor = Breakthrough in modern science, outside help from the rumored DRGN-ST0N program._ How a man all the way across the country knew where the DRGN-ST0N was, he could only hazard a guess. Not that it mattered; Therion held no other leads, and the sooner he got these stupid things, the better.

A hand landed on his shoulder.

To say it was an “undignified girly shriek” that escaped him would put it in kinder terms. Usually, he had strategies and rehearsals of what to do if someone grabbed him, but between his seeping tiredness and a new “friend” in his head, his usual methodology got chucked out the window in favor of a chicken-like squawk. 

“Wow,” said Tressa, her gremlin grin stretching ear-to-ear, “that was a sound.”

“Why are _you_ here.” His pride stung as he pulled up his scarf.

“I made Alfyn go back to bed since he looks awful.” She took out her phone and scrolled through its contents, lips pursed, before repocketing it. “Olberic and Kit are already out training, since they weren’t in their room, and I’m way too wired to sleep more. So, so!” She waggled her forefinger. “I thought, _what better way to spend my time than to hang out with my new best friend Therion?_ Lo and behold, here I appear!”

“Best - alright.” He frowned. “What’s your actual reason.”

“Aw, c’mon, why can’t that be my actual reason? But okay.” She stretched. “I’m keeping an eye on you for Alfyn, really. He didn’t say it, but his whole body language screamed that he was worried for you. And since I owe him still, I thought, hey!” She pounded her chest, beaming. “I am the epitome of helpful, and so, I can kill two scallops with one drop! Help him by helping you!”

Gods, he could feel the headache coming now. “I work alone.”

“Not today, you don’t! Besides, besides - what could you possibly be doing that doesn’t need a second set of hands? It’ll be fun! You and me, the dream team!”

Great. Grand. Wonderful. Therion rubbed his temples in mental preparation for his no good, very long day ahead of him. He gambled on telling the truth to get her off his back. “Fine. I’m stealing an old man’s flashdrive. Do you _really_ think you can help with that literally at all. Or even want to.”

“St - _stealing?_ As in, robbing someone?”

“Is there another definition I don’t know about.”

Her eyes widened in abject horror at the prospect of aiding a robbery. Good, maybe she’ll leave him alone then. Instead, she grabbed his ratted sweatshirt and shook him several times. “What! Why! Stealing is _bad,_ Therion! It’s illegal! You can’t just take something that’s not yours for your own gain without paying for it! Who even raised you! I can’t believe you’d do something like that!”

Well, he lost that bet. “Quit that.” He batted her hands. “You saw me kill a man. Why is stealing such a far stretch.”

“That,” she paused, a sharp breath catching between her teeth. Her grip loosened on his sweatshirt. “But, he was going to - I mean,” she shook her head, “that’s _different._ You did it to save me from getting killed, so - ugh. It’s different! Kind of! Let’s not talk about it right now, okay? Okay.”

Fine by him. Murder wasn’t exactly his forte. In fact, it was probably the first time he ever killed someone intentionally. Self-defense, really, for another’s behalf. He just acted before he thought too hard, and the next thing he knew, a body was at his feet. Another’s behalf? _Don’t think about it._

“If it makes you feel any better, he stole it first.” Therion decided to omit the fact that he also shoplifted and pickpocketed every other day for the sake of not getting another useless lecture. With someone like Alfyn - _Alfyn_ \- who could blame him? The guy had all of three leaves to his name on a usual basis, if not for Therion lining his pockets. “I’m stealing it back for my… employer.”

“A steal for a steal makes the whole world poor!” She puffed her cheeks in defiance. “But,” she deflated, “I _guess_ if he took it first, it’s only fair the original owner gets it back. Fine, fine - I’ll let it slide _this_ time. But I want it known I am not an accomplice here! I am just keeping an eye on you! And if you just so happen to take something from somebody, I am hereby not responsible! Got it?”

“Tell that to a lawyer, not me.” 

“Hey!”

Deep down - deepest of downs - Therion found himself somewhat glad for her impromptu intrusion. A nuisance like her prattling on about morals and whatever else drowned out the urge to listen to the Other. And it wasn’t Alfyn, either, whose presence currently rattled him senseless after - after. It wasn’t fair to him. Therion knew that. But still, how exactly was he supposed to explain something like _that?_ Something that could very well be a fluke of nonsense, anyhow. 

It didn’t actually happen. It just _felt_ like that actually happened.

He shifted his attention back to listening to Tressa: “Olberic’s a tough cookie! Do you think someone with noodle-arms like Kit could ever be like him? No, right?” and other such musings on their way to Mr. Orlick’s manse. Which, of course, proved confusing; the Oogle Maps application had the pair winding through roads in varying levels of disrepair in a weird roundabout means to even _get_ there. His feet hurt by the time they reached the gates; of course the guy’s a _rich_ educated type. Can’t get an easy mark or an easy lunch by having less goons guarding the damn place.

“Is this person you're trying to rob famous or something?” Tressa whispered as they ducked behind bushes. “There’s so many henchmen!”

“Maybe. I don’t know much about him. I just know he has what my employer wants back.” He counted six, maybe seven cronies roaming the grounds, and that was in the front of the building alone. Sneaking in wasn’t going to be possible, let alone easy. A more direct approach might be necessary, but knowing the educated types, they didn’t just let any old fool gain permission to walk right on through the front door.

Well. He tilted his head. Alfyn could probably chit-chat his way through after yucking it up to the guards about their families, sob stories, and whatever else he could get out of them. He pushed the thought aside; Alfyn wasn’t here right now. All he had was twitching hands and questionable acting skills. Judging by Tressa’s overall demeanor, she wouldn’t be able to lie through her teeth, either. 

Great.

“New plan,” he whispered back. “We’re gonna get more information on how to get through those guards.”

“Why not just charge them head-on? You know, like, wham blam spick and span!”

“Do you _see_ our numbers. I’m not the brick house Olberic is, and they look at the very least _somewhat_ trained.” What sort of man with a PhD needed so many helping hands, anyways? Someone with this level of influence must spurn a nest of rumors full of intrigue. “We’ll wait until the local bar opens and see what we can find.”

“That’s so anticlimactic.” Tressa drooped. For someone so against thievery, she sure seemed to be enjoying herself. She’d be the type to claim she hated horror movies, but would clap every time the serial killer beheaded another two-dimensional character. Maybe. “I hate playing the waiting game. Isn’t there some other approach we could try? Like, I dunno, spring on them the ‘help’ card?”

He blinked.

“Help,” he repeated.

“Yeah, like. I could act like I’m dying. You could be my ever-so-worried big brother carrying me around, and then, once all their guards are down, surprise!” She grinned, struggling to keep her voice down. “We unleash a sneak-attack! And then, and then, once they’re all down for the count, we _nyoom_ on into the place, get the flashdrive, _nyoom_ on out, and call it a day. Easy peasy. It’d work a lot better if we had Kit and Olberic ambush them, too, so maybe we should grab them before enacting our plan.”

“That sounds unnecessarily reckless and stupid. I might be stealing here, but I’m not so dumb to think that will _work._ Risks like that are what get people like me killed.”

“But it’s faster and more fun than the _long_ way around. And who’s to say you’ll hear anything useful at the bar?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Have a little more faith in us, Therion. We could totally pull this off!”

He squinted at her. She had a point; even if this Olrick fellow were the talk of the town with his obvious peculiarities, that didn’t necessarily mean the talk would have anything valuable. He weighed his options; roping in Olberic and Kit meant having more hands in the honey pot than he was comfortably used to. However, given his other choice of chancing someone might drunkenly blurt out something useful, he might have to. He ran a hand through his hair, huffing, before clicking his tongue.

“Fine,” he said, “we’ll ask them first. And when they say ‘no,’ then we’ll go back to my original plan.”

***

The original plan always had its inconsistencies, riddled with margins of error that even the reincarnated Lyblac understood. And it did fail; the brat with white hair suckled down the spell in a fit of potential jealousy of “Matthew” buying his friend a drink. Ah well. The brat was no host; Galdera’s genetics would end him inevitably, and Mattias would just have to bide his time to run into dear old “Alfyn Greengrass” one more time. However, he would have to be more direct. His opportunity for slipping Galdera into an appropriate soul secretly passed.

Good thing he had spares.

“How much longer?”

Mattias quirked an eyebrow. His musings almost prompted him to forget his passenger, one “Ms. Tomas.” Conniving and cunning she was, playing victim after her little conquest over Goldshore with a cure for a disease she herself spread. What was her actual name? Hazel? Details, schmetails; Galdera bestowed upon him a gift, one who even needed to go to _Saintsbridge._ Of all the places, she yearned to flee to the same exact destination his next trap would be laid to rest. Greengrass would end up there eventually. Destiny all but ordained it so. 

( _Her,_ too, if he recalled; the woman in white, the sister of the Flame. _She_ brought that damnable lanthorn to the ancient church, which no doubt withstood the wears and tears of the passing years. Where were your gods now? Rotting in the stars above, falling one by one by one. None could save the wretches of the world this time. And he wasn’t so merciful as to offer her to join him now. No, no; if she too rejoined them in this world, then he would ensure she’d be snuffed out, once and for all.)

And Ms. Tomas would make for a most fitting enabler. He offered her a smile: “A while yet. It is on the other side of the country, after all.”

She groaned, forehead pressing against the passenger’s side window. The music faded out to a cello piece. Mattias had yet to hear this one, so he turned it up a little, listening to its woeful soliloquy. 

“So.” Ms. Tomas lifted her head and pulled down the visor. She peered at herself in the tiny mirror, fixing her bangs. “You said you’re going to Saintsbridge to meet someone?” She spared him a glance before resuming her self-grooming. “Is it a lover?”

“Flames forbid.” Mattias allowed himself to chuckle. “I have long-since sworn off the path of romance many moons ago, I’m afraid. They are but a, ah, business partner of sorts. Potentially. We are meeting to secure a deal, more or less.”

She pursed her lips. “All the way across the country? Couldn’t you meet halfway?”

“Well, if we were to meet halfway, I would not have been able to swoop in to your aid, no? Besides which, if we met halfway, that would either be in the wretched Frostlands or the horrid Sunlands. The Riverlands are much more comfortable and pristine.” He gestured to the frigid lands surrounding them. “Can’t very well discuss details in subzero temperatures nor look your best trudging around in knee-high snow.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far north,” she said. “It’s beautiful, in a way.”

“I’ve been here once or twice,” he replied. “It loses its luster after a while.”

(The bodies are uncountable. The mass graves are too shallow, but the grounds beneath the snow are too impossibly cold to dig deeper. What unburned shovels that remained now sport dents in their flimsy craftsmanship. Matthew lets out a shivery sigh - or a sob, he can no longer tell. Most are unrecognizable, his people, his friends. He can tell a few by their wedding rings, or by the somehow unscathed dolls clutched between small, charcoal fingers. The rest are a lost cause. 

“Brother,” an aide of the Church says, head bowing low, “we found a few more to the west.”

It begins to snow. Snow, this time of year, when the spring brings tempests of bitter rains and whipping winds. One stray bolt was all it took, and now, all he loved and lived for perished in the very flames that gods-forsaken Aelfric stood for.

 _Where were you,_ he wants to scream, _where were you when they died? Where were your miracles?_

He rises from his wary knees and holds out a palm to catch a snowflake. It melts too fast for him to crush it.

“Brother?” the aide inquires, concern laced deep in his quiet voice. 

“I hate snow,” he answers, monotone. Then he turns to the brother, whose robes sport stains and burns from helping the others where Aelfric couldn’t even be bothered. “Lead the way. We’ll make room for more.”)

“Hard to imagine.” Ms. Tomas pressed her fingertips against the fogging glass, schooching back in her seat to get a better view of the landscapes surrounding them. She didn’t see him squeeze the life from his steering wheel, the deep-seated hatred for Orsterra’s most beloved god boiling in his blood. “Wow, a snowman! My sister always wanted to make one of those.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sister?”

“Ah - um.” Oh, a slip. Ms. Tomas never intended to share that much with the likes of Mattias, did she? “Yes. I used to have a sister. She was very wonderful.”

“I see,” he replied, giving her a sidelong glance. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah. Me too.” She turned away and folded her hands in her lap. 

The rumble of the engine cut the silence as the vehicle chugged through the snowy streets. His gears within his brain churned, too, ruminating on this new information. Well, well, well. He bit his bottom lip to contain the jubilation bursting at the seams of his remade flesh. If he played his hand right, he could easily, _so very easily,_ tip fortune even further in his favor. Another hand against the vile cretins residing in the heavens was always useful.

He cleared his throat. His persuasion skills were somewhat rusty, what with being locked away in an impenetrable void for nearly a millennia, but given her situation and her unfounded self-confidence, it could very well work.

“Remember when I spoke of Galdera the other day?”

She nodded and pulled a snack out of her bag. “The one mislabeled as the ‘Dark One’ ‘cause Aelfric is a jerk or something like that.”

“That’s - I suppose that is one way to surmise the events leading up to the Battle of the Stars.” His fingers rapped along the steering wheel, slowing down the vehicle somewhat as the road became slick. “Galdera happened upon a way to create miracles - miracles that defied the ‘natural order of things’ in order for Aelfric to continue His monstrous control over the people of Orsterra.”

She paused unwrapping the fruit bar. “Miracles?”

That got her attention. “Once, the gods walked the lands of Orsterra, fulfilling the needs and desires for the fledgling civilizations cropping up in every biome. Under Aelfric’s flame, they guided the people the best they seemingly could. Dohter the Charitable, for example, helped teach the mending of wounds and blessed the soils with plants that could heal the sick. Bifelgan brought about the boon of commerce, and Aeber revealed means to cheat the filthy rich for those downtrodden - and so on, so forth. So speak the renowned _Trials of the Twelve._ It’s how it always was, the beloved thirteen helping us, up until twenty-six hundred or so years ago.”

“Until Galdera went mad,” she supplied.

“So they say,” he reiterated. “Tell me, do you know what Galdera’s true title was, prior to being deigned as the Dark One, or the Fallen?”

“Uh, I’m gonna take a shot in the _dark_ here and say probably, I dunno, ‘Galdera, the Nice Guy Who’s Just Misunderstood.’”

“Almost,” he said. The disk finished and popped out, and he swapped it for a new one. Violins cued up, eerie in their warm-ups, accompanied by a crash of drums and other instruments lost to the loud. “He was called, ‘Galdera, the Miracle.’ He brought about gifts to the masses, such as elongated lifespans - and even conjuring up the dead. This,” he watched Ms. Tomas’s eyes widen, “went against what Aelfric represented, being the light and guiding lost souls to the heavens.”

“But - but why? Those are _good_ things to be given, not bad!”

“Because if one can cheat death like a god, then what good _are_ the gods?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. The revelation washed over her in phases: disbelief, followed by confusion, followed by realization. “Then,” she said, awestruck, “then if Galdera was just giving humans the power of the gods, he wasn’t really power-hungry at all, was he? Because why would he bless people if he wanted power for himself?”

“He simply was redistributing power, permitting humans to have fate in their own hands. One can imagine how Aelfric, so bent on being the guiding light, felt about that.”

The violins found their sway, a soloist leading the rest of the orchestra to begin. Ms. Tomas blinked a few times, fiddling with the wrapper in her hands.

“Was it all a lie?” she whispered. “The doctrines in schools, the Sacred Flame’s creed - everything was wrong?”

“Not entirely. The war did happen, twelve against one, and Galdera was indeed banished to the hellscape known as the ‘Finis Gate’ to keep him locked away. There, Galdera’s anger stewed for quite some time, and continues to stew, wanting to enact vengeance against the so-called ‘light’ and the almighty Twelve. But the _cause_ is entirely misconstrued to serve in Aelfric’s treacherous name. In reality…”

(Lyblac is her name. She stands, ethereally beautiful, in front of the church’s pew, her back turned to him. He starts to call out for her when her voice echoes in the open air, “Matthew.”

He stops, his outstretched hand falling back to his side. “I am here,” he answers, then approaches her. “What is it you wished to speak with me about?”

“It is time,” she says, turning to face him. Her smile belongs next to the definition of stunning. “It is time for you to know the truth of all things.”)

The snow started to fall in droves. Typical springtime, never consistent. Even with the slight melt from the above-freezing temps, there was too much of the awful stuff around. He kept a lookout for any stray bolts of lightning, but he knew Aelfric couldn’t be harvesting any souls right now, being so distracted with much else.

“...it was _Aelfric_ who wanted power over all things. Galdera rebelled and tried to sway the remaining eleven to his side, but they all couldn’t betray their Creator. All, sans one, who remains missing from the skies to this day. It is the greatest secret lost in the _Trials of the Twelve,_ and all the modern mythos of the Orsterran pantheon. In fact, it wasn’t even known until _recently_ about this god’s helping hand to Galdera’s cause.” Had he not heard it from Lyblac herself, he, too, would have had his doubts. No god he knew of would ever help the Fallen. Or so he believed until he returned to walk the earth once more, to fix the wrongs smattered across all of mankind. Such was his duty as the self-proclaimed prophet of Galdera.

Fruit bar all but forgotten, Ms. Tomas stared at him with wonder. “Which one?”

“The one known as the Charitable,” he answered. “Dohter herself.”

“Her - _her?_ I thought Dohter was - how do you _know_ all of this, anyways, when the whole rest of the continent has no idea?”

“Ms. Tomas.” He turned down the music and slowed the vehicle to a halt on the side of the road. He turned in his seat to face her, small conspiratorial smile on his face. “If I told you I have been blessed with Galdera’s miracles, would you believe me? In fact,” he wiggled his hands, “if you are willing, I can even share them with you. Or if you’d prefer, you can hear the reality from the horse’s mouth.”

It took a few moments before she understood clearly. “You mean,” she said, “hear from Galdera himself?”

“The very same.”

“But - but how? Isn’t he locked away in the gate? And why me?”

“Yes. For now, he is - but not for too much longer. For your other question, the why - you seem to have experienced _many_ hardships in your life, Ms. Tomas.” He offered a sympathetic smile to the best of his ability. “The loss of your sister sounds heartbreaking, and the betrayal of your lover is horribly unjust to such a fine lady such as yourself. Who better than _you_ to deserve a miracle of your very own, to turn your life around? I am certain Galdera would be in agreement.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Ms. Tomas took all of ten seconds to ponder the offer before returning his smile. A devilish plan hatched behind those eyes of hers, and the mental chess match began. Unfortunately for her, she who lived for herself, Mattias had several tricks up his sleeves to quash what foolhardy ideas cropped up in her head. “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I _do_ deserve a miracle. At the very least, I’d like to meet Galdera.”

He nodded once, and put his foot on the gas pedal. 

“Then let us mosey to Saintsbridge. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting _too_ long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to "unfittoparticipate," this fic has its first-ever fan-art! based on chapter 18! thank u so so much for ur support, y'all can check it out [here!](https://www.deviantart.com/unfit-to-participate/art/aftermath-856285275) and thank y'all for your patience! ^o^


	20. sp a ?k pl u gs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to ch. 20 (!!!) of this fic. thank y'all so, so much for bearing with it and me and the lack of consistent updates as of late. but! with any luck (work permitting), I should be able to post at least every other saturday now. hope that's okay. that said, thank y'all for ur kind words and kudos, they mean the world to me. and so! here be ch. 20, pls enjoy and lemme know what u think!!

When he was but a wee tyke growing up in the roaming hills of the Highlands, Archibold dreamt of the day he’d become a hero, a protector to fellow men who strove to make precious human advancements for the betterment of all. To that end, he enlisted in the Orsterran Naval Force once he hit adulthood, and served a good part of eight years under their prestigious mantle, rising up in the ranks as a well-beloved figure among his men. Protecting the country meant everything to him. Noble and valiant as it was, he hoped he could serve there until retirement.

Instead, due to horrendous budget cuts, the Naval Force reduced, well, their forces, and to help a fellow crewmate from impending poverty that would upend his entire massive family, he offered himself up on the chopping block. The lack of work left his destitute for a time, what with little jobs hiring in Orsterra’s questionable economy. He found some part-time offers, but most fell through with automation and his lack of expertise in the developing engineering field.

So he decided to do what Archibold did best: offer protective services. Even as Orsterra continued to grow in its rocky climate of constant changes, some things like violence and crime ever continued - albeit with different methodologies.

Except, as it turned out, the people needing protection were, in fact, doing nefarious deeds themselves. Evil protected itself from greater evils, and one cannot survive on an empty stomach for eternity on the meager helpings of non-evil offerings.

Thus, here he stood in full attention, hands clasped behind his back, keeping watch of even more questionable ruffians daring to storm his current charge. Mr. Orlick paid considerable sums that could suffice him for the rest of the year. Archibold learned that with those types that it’s better to not question where, exactly, that money originated from. The less he knew of a particular job, the better; that way, he could continue to delude himself into thinking that he still played on the good guy’s team.

Why a man with such pedigree needed so much protection while doing mere research, he would never understand. It reeked of nothing pleasant.

He suppressed a yawn and glanced at the rustling of bushes. A few hours prior, the bushes rustled in a peculiar manner too, but when he went to inspect, nothing was there. The lack of a breeze indicated something - or some _one -_ was watching from their poor hiding spot. He stroked his mustache, frowning in thought, as his current superior officer paced by him a few sticks.

“Orlick’s finally awake.”

“Hmm,” answered Archibold, averting his eyes from the rustling. He’d address it in a moment, but first: “What’s his status?”

“Mad, as always.” His superior rolled her eyes. “Keeps on a-muttering about this, that, or the other. If not for his pay grade, I’d probably found better work elsewhere. The man’s an utter _loon._ ”

“We shouldn’t gossip so much about our management.”

“As far as I can tell, I _am_ the management.” She shrugged. “Half the time he hardly recognizes his own helping hands, always peering into that damn computer screen. Have you ever been in his workspace? All those drives whir louder than a steamboat chugging at full power. Whatever he’s doing, it’s consuming a _lot_ of power. Can’t imagine what his electrical bill looks like.”

Archibold wasn’t so certain how he felt about her. She always bleated away information like an attention-hungry sheep and spun stories to an exaggerated proportion. How she managed to rise so high in the rankings, he had no idea. That said, she was stronger than ten men combined, so maybe it was a mere feat of strength. Plus, beneath the scars and the rough exterior, her heart glinted with a sheen of gold. He’d seen that kindness in numerous shifts working together with her. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “He still has more than enough to pay us.”

“Good point.” She stretched, her interlaced fingers popping at the joints with the exerted effort. “Well, it’s technically four more hours until break time, but I’m gonna swing by the cafe and get us some perk-me-ups. Half the crew’s dead-tired already and it’s not even noon. Got any special requests? It’s on me.”

“My regular.”

She snorted. “Eesh, you never are one to change things up a little. Y’know, it _is_ springtime and they’ve got that new flavored chai the locals are just a-raving about. Sure you don’t wanna get that instead?”

Before he could decline her offer, the rustling within the bushes suddenly became more pronounced, followed by some scraggly-looking twig of a man dragging along a young lass, her arm draped over his shoulders. His expression screamed of thinly-veiled panic and bore the exact picture-perfect levels of being distraught. The lass clutched at her reddening side, a bright stain in her otherwise immaculate white dress.

“Oh, sweet Aelfric,” his superior whispered. “Let’s put that aside for now - uh, hail, friends! Is everything a-okay? What’s going on?”

Archibold’s hand fluttered to the hilt of his blade. As rich as Orlick professed to be, he lacked offerings in terms of weaponry, settling with tried-and-true blades instead of the more reliable gunpowder. Only the hired help residing within the manse were graced with such firepower. However, compared to this clear ruffian and his little friend, it would be sufficient - should it come to that.

The lad hobbled over, straining to drag the half-dead weight of the lass. Perhaps Archibold’s blade wouldn’t be needed, after all; his countenance bore a lackluster strength in every uncertain step. His grip around the lass’s wrist shifted several times, unable to keep a proper hold of her. “I,” his trembling voice managed, mismatched eyes bright with a gloss of tears, “I need - I need help, she’s - some dastard stabbed my sister and made off with her belongings while I wasn’t paying attention, and - and I don’t know what to do, she just _keeps bleeding,_ and - gods, this is all my fault, I -”

Archibold exchanged looks with his superior, who’s eyes grew wide at the dire predicament. Gods have mercy; even the likes of a young lady wasn’t safe in the tumultuous climate providing safer havens to the utmost terrible persons wading about in the shared gene pool. “Do you know which direction the villain made off to?” he asked, grip tightening around the hilt of his blade. “We can offer pursuit.”

“I - I’m not sure.” The young man glanced over his shoulder, bottom lip quivering. “I just - how do I save her? We can’t afford a hospital, her birthday was just last week and I bought her this dress with what savings we had to surprise her like an absolute idiot that I am, and now I - I’m so - if she dies, I don’t know what I’m gonna -”

“Breathe, buddy.” His superior offered a warm smile, brows knitted together in sympathy. “Why don’t we take a look at her wound and see what we can do for you, okay? It might not be much, but I’ve got some a-training in first aid from the war. Archie, can you do me a favor and fetch me the first aid kit in the main hall? Should have enough tools for me to slow the bleeding down enough to get her somewhere safer.”

“Understood. I’ll be back in a moment. Hang tight, young man.”

He understood the details in his contract, such as not getting involved in external affairs that had little regard for his assignment. However, how can one turn a blind eye to a situation like this? He hurried through the front door of the manse, eyes darting about the many different compartments within the open-air closet. Gods, when was the last time they cleaned this up? Everything was an utter mess; it’d be miraculous to find anything in mere seconds in the engorged trash heap. He tore apart the cluttered shelves, whispering a prayer to any god of cleanliness to bestow upon him a stroke of luck, and - ah-hah! His hands found purchase on the plastic container donned with a large red plus symbol on its front. At least the contents within remained organized, with enough supplies to save the lass from an untimely demise - at least for a few additional minutes.

But sometimes, as he learned from the war, a few additional minutes was what made all the difference in the eternal battle between life and death.

He tucked the med kit beneath his arm and began his quickened return. The front door swung open with a bang of his shoulder, head jerking upward to announce his successful find - 

\- only to feel a prick impale itself upon his exposed neck, prolonging the seconds to hours, wobbling the familiar scenery he gazed upon for the past few months, and collapsed into a heap of unconsciousness after thinking, _Oh. That lad acts so well and I fell for it thoroughly. He ought to pursue theater instead of whatever he’s trying to accomplish here._

And so, Archibold dreamed of a violent sea as his body slumbered through what would be the event that prompted his impending termination.

***

Much to Therion’s dismay, both Olberic and Kit agreed to participate in his mission.

Fan-fucking-tastic. 

It took awhile to find the pair. Noblecourt, being home to far too many old people, housed numerous parks for its citizens to take strolls through. Kit and Olberic sparred in one of them, the swing of their sticks echoing throughout the sparse trees. Birds scattered everywhere after a hefty _thwack,_ one end of Kit’s now-split sword sailing through the air and impaling the patch of mud upright. Yeesh. Remind Therion to never get on Olberic’s bad side - as if he didn’t need more reason to.

Tressa took charge of the explanation with so many confusing Tressa-isms that Therion, the head of the actual operation, got lost too many times to count. Something something “bash ‘em good and charge it grand” something. Somehow, Kit understood perfectly, nodding along with great enthusiasm while Olberic, possessing the patience of a statue, folded his arms across his chest while mulling it over. He added some additional thoughts to make the bare-bones idiocy somewhat more manageable and doable.

And that - amidst a slight annoying hiccup - was how they ended up using Tressa’s Plan A instead of Therion’s Much Safer and No-Nonsense Plan B. Really, why did he tell her anything? In fact, why did he allow her to do that in the first place? He could have just ignored her. What a bad lapse of judgment. When they ditched the stuffy Noblecourt, he was gonna doze all the way back to Bolderfall to recharge from everyone’s overly smothering and stupidly nosey presence.

(“What happened to your eye?” Because of course Kit would notice. Tressa paled a few degrees as Therion slapped a hand over it.

“Oh, you know,” he drawled in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “I got possessed by a ghost.”

That was the biggest mistake of his life, as the whole trip _back_ to Orlick’s place had Kit demanding answers ranging from _What did it look like?!_ to _How did it feel?!_ and other such nuisances. At least he could conceal the even more disconcerting truth for a mite longer. And if he got a _look_ from Olberic, who obviously didn’t buy it for a second, he certainly didn’t bother to acknowledge it.)

After nabbing a bit of Alfyn’s good ol’ “sleepweed” back at the hotel (where he still dozed in fits, seeing as his expression contorted into a scowl of concern. Therion tried not to think about it), they reapproached the manse, a plan solidified and heavily relying on Therion’s decent-ish acting skills. No pressure or anything. Not like he had an audience of trained goons to see through that kind of shit he needed to impress.

“Just believe in yourself,” Tressa said, mushing fresh berries into her dress. “We’ve _totally_ got this.”

And surprisingly, they did. The plan worked almost _too_ well; Therion thought himself to be dreaming when the last man who went to fetch a med kit dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes at the doorstep. They’d be out for quite some time. He sighed, shaking off the unprofessional jitters, before frowning. Quick work.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll take it from here. No need for the peanut gallery to get involved in the rest of this.”

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Kit bit his bottom lip. “I mean, what if there’s more of them inside?”

“I’ll do what I do best and turn invisible. Easier to do with less people involved. It won’t take me more than,” he sized up the building, brow furrowed, “five minutes, max. Blink and you’ll miss it.”

“Five _minutes?”_ Tressa repeated, incredulous. “You sure? This place is bound to have all kinds of nooks and crannies.”

“Trust me, I’m a pro. This is child’s play to someone like me.” Even with the mild handicap of sleepiness, he could practically scour a building like this in his sleep. All mansions held similar features, and based on the conversation those two guards had, the room that housed his “treasure” needed to be spacious enough and cool enough to house a lot of computers.

Meaning what he was looking for would be, undoubtedly, in the basement.

“I don’t know.” Tressa bit her bottom lip and rocked on her heels. “I mean, what if something bad happens in there? We won’t know and won’t be able to help you. And that’d break my not-promise to Alfyn to keep an eye on you. Can you imagine an influencer like me not keeping her promises! I’d be cancelled in the matter of seconds, I tell you!”

Gods above, she was going to drive him into an even earlier grave with all her whining. He huffed. “Ugh, just - okay, how about this. Time me. If I’m not out in five minutes, _then_ you can send in the calvary.” Which wouldn’t be necessary. Anything to just get her to shut up. See, this was why he worked alone to avoid people like - people like - 

(“You’re so _naive._ ”)

Anyways. He shook his head once and turned toward the front entrance, the manse looming over them like a bad season one TV villain in all its non-foreboding glory. 

“Okay, okay,” said Tressa, albeit reluctant. Why did she care so much in the first place? They were practically strangers. “Five minutes, and if you’re not back, I’ll shove Kit-Kat and Olby in on after you, got it!”

“Wait - wait, why _me?”_ squawked Kit, and Therion just rolled his eyes before ( _right foot first_ ) “storming” the mansion. 

More like walking in and surveying his surroundings. Aside from the mishap at the Ravuses ( _desperate times called for desperate measures_ ), he preferred to steal information and data digitally rather than physically, then sell it to the morons who craved that shit on the black market. But that Heathcote made a brazen demand to have the physical copy of the flashdrive returned - and to have “all copies destroyed.” Yeah, okay. Like Therion could control where this Orlick guy sent all his research to. Unless he was lucky, and Orlick, seemingly the private person he was judging by all those guards, didn’t share _any_ of it for his own selfish gains.

He hoped so. Otherwise his timer might exceed his own set limit. And who knew what would happen with the other two flashdrives? Seriously, if these programs were so important, why put them on flashdrives at all? Make it so painfully annoying to rob in the first place, like divying the data across a metric fuck-stone of floppy discs. Then again, his “employer” was someone who just turned eighteen and probably lacked the foresight of making it more difficult to steal. Not his place to judge. Only his place to get them back in exchange for his freedom.

Although now with his new friend, he had doubts about _ever_ being free again.

Speaking of. The no-name god (or self-proclaimed god, who knew, it might actually _be_ a ghost pretending to be something more. Therion had no way to tell other than its word) remained silent, as asked. He should feel relieved about that, not having to deal with its Ye Ole Orsterran, but it still somehow unsettled him. 

One thing at a time. First, the DRGN-ST0N.

He crept through the winding halls and opened doors to ridiculously ornate rooms. He avoided eye-contact with any absurd portraits. Rich people and their desires to be immortalized in paint seemed to carry through the generations. It didn’t make sense to him - photographs were a thing now (and, judging by Tressa’s insistence to “get a quick selfie in” every other minute, very popular). Who had time to sit around and let some crotchety artist paid less than they deserved to capture their client’s likeness?

Well. He supposed the more money you had, the more free time to kill. Still, portraits were annoying and creepy. At least spend the money on something useful, like food or getting wasted at the local bar to share the wealth.

Finding the stairwell leading toward the basement bore some challenges; it resided beyond a hallway with one man, a good six twigs taller than Therion, standing guard with his hands clasped behind his back. He reeked of cologne, permeating throughout the hallway and damn near made Therion sneeze up a storm when he sneakily approached. The ads on TV perpetuated the idea that women would flock to you if you swam in their product. Therion surmised it did the opposite. He pulled up his scarf to cover his nose, ducking behind the jutted outward portion of the hallway, blocking the man’s view of his newest intruder. 

Three minutes and fifty seconds left. He needed to get creative, fast. 

He removed his scarf - a struggle, since he immediately wanted to cough afterward - and bundled it up. Then, straightening himself and flicking his bangs to one side, he strode right out into the hallway, a combination of disinterest and mild amusement on his face. The guard’s hands came into view, gloved and large and reaching for something.

“ _Finally,_ ” Therion said, sighing. “You think you could create a map for this place? Making deliveries is complete nonsense in a house like this. How am I supposed to know where the basement is?”

The guard paused. Behind those pitch-black sunglasses, Therion could hardly scrutinize his expression. “A delivery?”

“Mm, for one, hold on.” Therion squinted at the imaginary paper stapled onto his cloth “package.” “Orlick, it says. My handler doesn’t tell me much else, but he said it’s very important Orlick gets this as soon as possible. Hence the shoddy wrapping job.”

“I wasn’t alerted to a delivery today.”

“Eesh, again? Goodness.” Therion let out an exasperated sigh while walking closer. Just a bit more and he could get this guy out cold. “Let me tell you what, the number of times and nuisances I’ve had to put up with from incompetent communication is totally not worth my rates sometimes. Are you hiring, by any chance? I’m looking for different work. My boss is a total crapshoot. No benefits, can you _imagine?_ ”

The guard appeared nonplussed, albeit a sprinkle curious. Good. All Therion needs to work his magic was just the slightest mistake in letting their guard down even a tiny bit. He stopped a mere five sticks in front of him, mouth opening to prattle off more useless conjured bullshit, before chucking the scarf at the guard with as much strength as his twig arms could muster.

The guard squawked, hands reaching for what looked to be a taser strapped in his utility belt, but Therion moved faster. He rounded the back and, after hooking an arm around the guard’s neck, pricked Alfyn’s sleepweed tonic ( _ugh, needles_ ) into one of his bulging veins. Beats passed; the guard went limp, snoring louder than a jackhammer on cement. 

Three minutes.

He grabbed his scarf and booked it down the stairwell, hands palming the walls to find the lightswitch. It took a few tries before the lights sputtered on.

They revealed before him a mess of wire management; they sprawled all along the basement’s carpet in a terrible haphazard manner. Machines whirred in a struggle to chug through whatever they were processing, louder than any air conditioner Therion heard. Some of the lines led to a multi-monitor “home base,” with computers stacked precariously atop one another.

No wonder they called this Orlick guy a loon. Who would put tens of thousands of leaves-worth of equipment on each other like that? The risk of them falling and breaking or corrupting was not worth the meager extra space. But he wasn’t here to give pointers. 

“Where is it,” he muttered under his breath, taking care to not trip.

(“You will know it once you see it,” said Heathcote as Therion rubbed his abused arm. It stung where he inserted the damn chip. “It is unlike any other ‘drive’ you have seen.”)

Therion stood in front of the base of operations, all the monitors turned dark from inactivity. Yet even without using the graphics cards, the computers wheezed haggard, hot breaths. A bead of sweat rolled down Therion’s cheek. His gaze shifted from the monitors to the biggest computer of all, about half his height and bearing the brunt of most incoming wires.

And there it was. Heathcote was right.

The DRGN-ST0N, even in the less-than-flattering lighting, glittered a brilliant red. Most flashdrives were a simple stick, usually black in color, with the occasional blinking light to indicate whether or not it was plugged in. This was nothing usual, though. Round and obtuse, it bore many facets like an actual gemstone. Several books stacked underneath it to hold it up so the USB wouldn’t snap off when plugged in from the weight. Therion had many questions, all of which he doubted would be answered. 

Better not to ask.

He yanked the flashdrive out of the computer - like he gave a shit about possible file corruption - and almost immediately dropped it. The thing weighed more than he thought! He shoved it into his little bag (at least it fit) and zipped it just in time before the computers began blaring a sharp, high-pitched alarm.

_Pfft, okay. If you think a little alarm like that’s going to stop anyone, you really are out of your damn mi -_

In burst who he presumed to be Orlick. Shower water dribbled all around his hefty body, his decency spared by the pair of boxers he thought to throw on. Therion raised an eyebrow. Faster than expected, but not a problem; the man looked ready to keel over from the amount of effort it took for him to come running down there. The alarms ceased, leaving an eerie silence aside from the mingling wheezing shared between the computers and the man himself.

“You!” he shrieked, jabbing a thumb in Therion’s direction. “How dare you invite yourself into a gentlemen’s laboratory!” He inhaled a sharp breath, bending over and putting his hands on his knees to recompose himself, then stood up straight. “Begone, thief!”

“Ironic, seeing as you’re the one who ran off with something that isn’t yours first.” Therion stepped toward him, unafraid. He faced bigger monsters than this before. He had a minute and half or so to skedaddle, which probably was the time it would take for Orlick to recover from his impending heart attack. Then he saw the glint of silver, and _oh,_ this man came prepared. The knife’s blade pointed right at Therion.

“I don’t have time to play semantics with the likes of you!” Orlick’s cheeks huffed and puffed, his bare feet squishing against the wire-covered carpets. “I can’t allow you to abscond with months of research when I am _this close_ to solving its encryptions!”

“Should’ve solved it faster, what can I say.” Therion shrugged and glanced at the door behind Orlick. If he can feint left, then dive right, he might be able to make it without engaging in a scuffle. He reached into his bag, finding the last of Alfyn’s concoctions he swiped. He better make it count.

(“Muh,” Alfyn grumbled in his sleep, eyes glossed over with drowsiness. “S’over in the uhhhh… bag m’over there’r so. S’only got… I ain’t sure, be runnin’ low, in them needles there, careful not to… Nn...” 

“Go back to bed,” Therion whispered.

“Be safe,” the half-asleep Alfyn replied, face mushing into the pillow.)

And he better get Alfyn more. It was the least he could do, what with making his job much easier.

Orlick lunged. Therion stepped to the left - _wait, shit, I need to go right_ \- and felt the blade graze his sweatshirt. He ducked, performing an awkward dance with Orlick as he hurried to get a move on. He could hear the pounding of combat boots coming down the stairs - _of_ course _there’s reinforcements_ \- while Orlick shrieked and cursed and sliced at air, eyes ablaze with an academic’s frightful rage.

Less than a minute. The knife swung again, catching Therion’s bicep, but the momentum hurdled Orlick right into one of his servers. His face mashed against it with a crunchy _thud,_ ankles tangled in the wiring. Therion jammed the needle into his back - _sweet dreams, asshole_ \- and ran toward the door, pressing his back right against the wall next to the frame. Ow, that stung.

The lackeys poured in, shouting concern and orders, looking around for Therion, who rounded the corner and fled up the stairs when the opportunity revealed itself. A loud _bang_ went off behind him, the _whoosh_ of a bullet whizzing by his ear, and the adrenaline kicked in. The _rush_ of a heist, old but familiar, burned in his veins, a grin he couldn’t help spreading across his lips as he sprinted down the all-too-long hall.

“After him!” 

He skidded to a stop and chucked the glass-encased needle across the hall, watching it shatter on some poor guard’s nose. He jerked back as Therion, relying on his memory, banged his good shoulder against a set of double doors. The main entrance came into view, the taste of victory sweet on Therion’s tongue, and he glanced over his shoulder one more time -

He saw the guard’s glock first before the shot fired.

***

“Ten,” Tressa muttered, chewing up a storm of her bottom lip. “Nine.”

Olberic remained staunch as ever, as still as an impregnable fortress and as alert as a hawk. The timer on her phone zipped by too fast. She rocked on her heels, eyes glued to the screen, Kit beside her picking at his nails from anxiety. Not only was waiting for Therion panic-inducing, but the guards around them could wake up at any time. Sheesh, she certainly wasn’t cut out for this risky business. 

“Seven,” she continued. Olberic’s eyes narrowed. “Six, five…”

A _bang_ caused the nearby pigeons to scatter from pecking at the ground. Tressa and Kit froze. Olberic walked forward, hands balled into fists and ready to take action, when it happened.

It. The light. It was but a tenth of a second, stunning yet blinding, and Tressa wasn’t sure if it actually happened or not. Then tumbling out came Therion, grunting, one arm bleeding, one eye _shining,_ but his perpetual scowl remained the same.

“What was _that?_ ” Kit asked, and Tressa had a feeling it might have been the thing from earlier that morning. She didn’t say that, though. Instead, she pocketed her phone and ran up to him, if only to fulfill her unsaid promise to Alfyn.

“We gotta move,” Therion hissed. He didn’t seem inclined to explain what happened just now. A question for later, then. 

“Are you okay?” She looked him over - the light in his eye died down to its unusual clearness - before noting the only injury he sported was a cut. “Did you get what you were looking for?”

“Yes and yes. I’m being pursued, let’s _go_ already.”

No need to tell Tressa twice. She flailed her arm in a motion to be interpreted as _move, move!_ and their little merry band of misfits ran from the mansion. Her feet didn’t stop until they reached all the way back to their hotel, a good thousand trees from Therion’s target. She gasped for breath, fanning herself with her hat. 

“Well!” she said, nodding. “That was unnecessarily exciting!”

“I _told_ you we should’ve stuck to plan B,” Therion groused. He slapped a hand over his cut, annoyed. “Remind me to never use your ideas ever again. We’re gonna have to leave town by tonight to escape them.”

The front desk gave them a _look_ when they returned all sweaty and disheveled. Tressa hoped to disarm their concerns with her dazzling 10-million-likes-worthy smile and a quick wave. It worked, for the most part. Although Therion’s little wound there might have raised some eyebrows when they hurried upstairs. Plus her stained dress looking like she was bleeding out didn’t grant them any favors, either. Oops.

“We’ll have Alfyn take a look at you and have you patched up.” She gave a thumbs up and a wink. “I’m sure a cut like that will be easy-peasy for him to fix.”

“I can do it myself.”

“You should take him upon his services,” Olberic said. “Not only will the mending be done better, it will grant him more practice.”

“It’s not even that bad,” he muttered. Tressa wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah? And what if it gets infected, huh?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “And then what if he has to _amputate_ it? What then? I bet you’d be real-mega-sorry after that! Come on, come on. It doesn’t hurt to at _least_ have him take a look at it, right?” 

Geez, so stubborn. Therion’s grump-itude out-grumped even that one picture circulating on the Internet about a cat with a constant look of displeasure. Maybe she could create a meme out of Therion’s face one day. Ooh, the possibilities! She smirked at her own idea while fiddling with the door. “Alfyyyyn! Rise and shine, we’ve got -” the door swung open, and she tromped inside, “ - a thing that needs. Uh. Your services?”

Empty. She blinked, and rubbed at her eyes. Still empty. The Alfyn they left in bed was no longer there. Nor his wallet. 

“Huh.” She tilted her head and turned back to her other friends. “Guess he stepped out for a minute?”

“Should we wait here, or?” Kit scratched the side of his head. “His bag’s gone, so it’s not like we can borrow his stuff to help Therion.”

Olberic hummed in thought before nodding once.

“The carnival,” he said. “I am certain he went there to keep his promise of a certain lady’s desired popcorn.”

Tressa perked up immediately, eyes glittering at the prospect of her long-desired treat. “That makes _total_ sense! Alrighty, it’s settled! We’ll give you a patch job, I’ll get changed into something less messy, and then we can go find Alfyn at the carnival!”

Therion let out a heavy sigh, pushing his way into the room and setting the small bag he carried down onto the nightstand. Then, after a moment’s thought, he shoved it under the mattress instead. He took his ratty-looking scarf and wrapped it around his arm, biting down on it to secure it tight, before sighing again. Forget Alfyn, _Therion_ looked ready to sleep for fifty plus years.

“Alright,” he said, peeved, “hurry up with changing so we can hurry and find him before the guards find _us._ ”


	21. a study in cerulean; act i.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so. ever realize that u were supposed to do something a few days later. yeah. sorry about that, uh, here we are, on a not-Saturday, posting our bi-weekly saturday chapter for y'all to enjoy. with everything going on as of late, I hope all y'all are staying safe and taking necessary precautions in these turbulent times. if u need anything, pls feel free to hit me up on twitter (in my bio) - I'm avail to talk and stuff if u all need it. ^o^
> 
> that said, here is ch. 21 - thank y'all for ur continued support with ur comments and kudos, and pls enjoy!!

The breeze rustling the Flatland’s homogenous scenery felt good on Alfyn’s cheeks. Moving itself felt better, his body a jittering bundle of nerves (both physically and mentally) after last night. After this morning. His inner “quack” logic dictated Therion to wait twenty-four hours to see if any additional symptoms arose, but his inner Alfyn logic could tell that such advice would fall upon covered ears. Therion worked best alone, or so Therion purported. Therion could handle himself. He had thus far - why would a little potential demonic possession change anything?

Yeah, okay. Alfyn groaned, rubbing his face with his hands in an attempt to wipe the sleepiness away. He really wanted to join him, to make sure he was all right, but - he sighed, gaze shifting about listlessly - but what good was a knackered, fledgling doctor for a heist? Not much at all, really; not until the aftermath, at any rate. And until Therion returned (and Tressa too, from her eager illegible scribbles on a note Alfyn couldn’t hope to glean any information from), his part needed to play the waiting game.

Except - 

(“Alf,” Zeph wheezed, summer sweat pouring from every orifice comprising his face as they pursued Ms. Thompson’s loose beloved pet dog, “Alf, slow _down,_ wouldja, some of us ain’t got your stamina.”)

\- he always had sucked at winning such contests.

To distract himself from the potential disasters brewing in his head ( _what if that demon pops up and does something crazy? What if he gets caught? What if -_ ), he needed some fresh air after those few minutes of dozing. So he decided, hey, why not get Tressa that popcorn she would die without? He even had the money for it. His wallet sat heavy in his pocket, the worn leather still gaping at the mouth with golden aspen-colored bills. 

Strange that the government trained people to pickpocket.

 _Not-government,_ he amended. Something about - shit, what’d Therion say again? He scratched his head, the details fuzzy. That wasn’t like him. Usually, his brain absorbed information like a sponge. _Rich kid,_ he recovered at last. _Some rich kid._

He knew next to nothing about the world of the elite. Not that he and his Ma had a deplorable livelihood growing up (far from it; sure, the little apartment might not’ve had heat for a winter, and sure, the pipes had the tendency to burst here and there, but), though money never came easily to their hands. And - not to be judging a fish by its scales, but - Therion didn’t seem the type to associate with affluent folks. How’d he get hired by someone like that? And why train him for such things? If they were wealthy, why not just buy the - what were they again? - flashdrives back? It made little sense for them to get a third party involved, didn’t it? More hands in the honey pot often made it taste less sticky-sweet. 

Of course, getting those answers meant breaking the “no questions” clause he signed up for when he offered Therion a ride.

He sighed again.

He just wanted to give the guy a _ride._ That’s how everything all started. Sure, he half-anticipated things might get a bit wonky here and there - (The dagger plummets, a body bleeds, and the woman shrieks a mournful, rage-laced cry, a blazing demand for vengeance burning bright in her eyes) (a mother splays her hands on the sidewalk, a phony promises a cure for a staggering cost) (a demon sings a tempting, off-cadence lullaby, **with me** ) - but he never expected any of _this._

(“I’m ‘bout to teach ya the greatest lesson of ‘em all, kiddo.” Ma wrung out one wet towel and picked up a dry one in her attempt to wipe clean her filthy, river muck-covered child. “Everything ya do - down to every little choice ya make - s’gonna have a consequence. You decide hoppin’ rocks with your bestie there’s gonna be smart in the springtime thaw? You’re gonna own up that ya fell on in an’ damn near drowned. Ya gonna stay up wicked late watchin’ some cartoons? Yer gonna be tired come the mornin’. You understand me?”

He pouted, refusing to lift his stare from his feet. “Am I grounded?”

“For a week, buster.” She ruffled his hair with a tired smile. “I’m feelin’ merciful ‘cause I think ya learned good an’ proper to not be taunting the river this here time of year. Yer lucky Zeph be a smart cookie an’ came runnin’ to get me when he noticed ya ain’t able to fight the current.”)

Right. Everything had consequences, anticipated or otherwise. He sighed a third time, feeling the weight of that lesson on his shoulders. All he could do at this point was try his best, yeah? And his best required him to be feeling his best. It’s the most he could do in such a strange and turbulent world. He nodded to himself. No need to let such uncertainties get him down! A doctor, training or otherwise, needed to smile when shit especially hits the fan! Even if there were no known cures for whatever might be ailing Therion, hell, he’d scour the world and find it. That’s what it meant to take the oath of saving lives, no matter who or how. 

Okay, well, the “how” might matter. Can’t be stealing someone’s heart to fix another, unless they’re a cadaver. There are plenty of rules and regulations to such things. 

“Excuse me, sir,” said a scraggly-looking man from behind the carnival front entrance’s booth, “is everything all right?”

“Oh! Oh, uh.” Shoot, he somehow already made it to his destination without realizing it. He let out a sheepish laugh and held up his hands. “Yeah, all be good, sorry. Kinda got lost in my thoughts there for a sec. Y’all still settin’ up?”

“We’ll be opening in about forty minutes or so. Apologies for the - wait a hare. _Alfyn?_ ” The man leaned across the counter, squinting unusually close at Alfyn’s face. Then he gasped, and the pretense of a falsetto customer service voice dropped quicker than a pebble down a ravine. “Holy shit, it really _is_ you! I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age and a half! Never thought I’d ever see you come ‘round these parts. How’s it been?”

Alfyn blinked a few times, trying to comprehend _who_ and _how do I know you_ and _I am awake, right?_ in a matter of seconds. He peered back at the man’s face, the ample freckles, the buck teeth - “No way,” he said at last, taking a step back, “you ain’t _Carlisle,_ are ya? Like, Mrs. Gotto’s kid?”

Carlisle showcased his trademark signature grin, lacing his hands together behind his head in a carefree manner. “Nailed the tail on the donkey’s ass there, Alf. But I go by Fred now - you can be the exception to the rule when we’re chattin’ alone like this, though. How’s it been?”

“You ran away all of seven or so years ago!” Alfyn gawked. All of Clearbrook dispatched a huge team of people to find the thirteen-year-old who all but vanished one cloudy Tuesday. He turned up nowhere, even with the filed missing persons report. Heck, there were still posters of him circulating in Clearbrook’s bar. “What, ya ran away with the circus or somethin’? Your Ma’s been worried _sick_ over ya.”

“Eesh, not sick enough to ditch her new husband for my sake. Tell me, Alf, that bastard still ‘round, or did he drink himself to an early grave?” He wrinkled his crooked nose. “If he’s dead, I’ll consider asking for some time off and swingin’ by.”

“They’ve gone and separated three years back. Was a whole big hullabaloo, lemme tell ya. Ain’t nobody shut up ‘bout it for weeks at the bar when it broke. He ditched town ‘bout a month after when he realized she wasn’t gonna put up with him no more.”

Carlisle’s eyebrows raised in mute surprise, lips pursed while ruminating the information. His fingers rapped against the makeshift counter. “Huh. Maybe she finally got sick of him hittin’ her. Guess it won’t hurt to go see her come Flamesday. But,” he waved dismissively, “I ain’t thought you’d ever leave the Riverlands there, buddy! You’d come on home in a cryin’ fit whenever you had to leave Zeph when heading towards good ol’ Saintsbridge for those doc appointments ya had. Swore up and down you’d stay there ‘til the day you died, mmhm.” He nodded to himself. “What changed? Other than your height, sweet Aelfric.”

Alfyn barked out a laugh. “I ain’t grown none too much, have I?”

“Pssh, yeah, if you be saying shootin’ up two sticks is ‘nothing.’”

Given the time of day and how few folks meandered this side of the Flatlands, no one else lined up for the carnival’s impending opening. Come the evening, though, it might be a different story. Depending on Therion’s schedule, they probably wouldn’t get a chance to experience it, which was a shame. Still, seeing Carlisle - alive and kicking, no less - felt like a fresh breath of home. Totally worth it.

“What _hasn’t_ changed, more like.” Alfyn hitched his thumbs into his belt loops, watching a flock of unnamed birds fly off overhead. “Tried my hand at college, Zeph and Mercedes finally got married, an’ Ma, she.” He bit his bottom lip, and forced a reassuring smile. “She passed on to meet Aelfric ‘bout a year ago.”

“Whoa, whoa. Ms. Greengrass? Your _Ma_ passed away?” Carlisle’s muddy eyes widened into puddles. “No shit? Good gods, Alf, I’m _so_ sorry, holy fuck. She’s the strongest lady I know after all the shit she put up with from - well, y’know. Dohter’s dick, that’s - I ain’t even know what to say, uh - my condolences. How’d she die, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

(“Ma?” Her shoulder felt cold. The same shoulders that carried him higher than a kite on the way to fish from the river, the same shoulders that lugged parts and pieces from the dump to fix her gas guzzler, the same shoulders that hitched upward in boisterous wheezes and laughter over his stupid jokes - cold, frozen, and stiff, like a beer can wedged into a dirty snowbank and left overnight. He gave it another shake, hoping to rid himself of a new, unwanted reality, and his heart began pounding in his ears. “Ma,” he repeated, more forceful, a little louder, a bit panicked, shaking her again, _“Ma,_ quit it, this ain’t funny,” and it was when she didn’t laugh _this_ time that he knew.)

Alfyn bit his bottom lip and looked away. 

“Doc said somethin’ ‘bout pulmonary embolism. Blood clot,” he elaborated at Carlisle’s blank look. “She apparently had it for some time, but got too stubborn to go an’ get it checked. I,” he fidgeted, “I couldn’t tell anythin’ was even _wrong,_ to be honest.”

“Shit, man. I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. It’ll be okay.”

Carlisle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be feedin’ me that shit, dude. We all know you two were tighter than grapes on a stem. A real mama’s boy, through an’ through.”

“Alright, alright. S’not okay, but,” Alfyn pounded his chest, “I’m managin’, you know? What else can I do? Ma’d be some kinda upset if she saw me down and out over it all the time. So you better make sure to go say hi to _your_ Ma ‘fore she kicks it, too, an’ you lose that chance forever.”

“Yeesh, you sure how to motivate a man to get back to his old haunts.” Carlisle stuck a pinky in his ear and sighed. “Someday I’ll get the courage to do it. Truth be told, I’ve been thinking about it, but - you’re right. She’s gettin’ up there.” He shook his head and leaned against the counter. “That why you decided to leave town? ‘Cause of your Ma?”

“S’part of it, yeah. Among other things.”

Carlisle stared for a moment, then nodded in feigned clarity. “So it be ‘cause Zeph didn’t marry you. That right?”

Alfyn sputtered from the emotional whiplash, a blush burning on his cheeks. “That ain’t - no, I just - I needed to get - how the hell did ya even _know_ ‘bout that?”

“C’mon, man, everyone both east and west of the river knew. Ever seen the way ya looked at him? Clearer than a summer’s day you were crushin’ on him, big time.” He shrugged. “Ain’t never left his side, even when you two were on opposite teams for the frog-catchin’ contests. M’just surprised you never confessed, ‘specially given the way he looked back at ya.”

Alfyn let out a sheepish chortle - then paused. What?

“What?”

“Y’know, his crush on you?” Carlisle tilted his head to the side. “Like, he asked me for advice and everything ‘bout it before I ditched town. How to ask you out and everythin’. ‘Course, Zeph’s always been worried about others’ opinions, so I reckon he must’ve chickened out.”

“He,” Alfyn whispered, unable to process the newfound information, “he liked me _back?”_

“Well, Zeph be a bit of a playboy, let’s be real. He got puppy-crushes from my Ma to Mercedes to me and to you. But,” he shrugged, “guess Mercedes was the real winner, in the end. Must’ve grown out of it, if he settled on down and married her. Can’t say I blame him, she always was a smart cookie. Real cute too from what I remember. Shit happens. Wait,” he cocked his head to the side, “ya really ain’t know?”

“No, I.” A peculiar claminess developed on his palms, and he wiped it off onto his pants. “I just - I thought - I didn’t.”

He didn’t. He daydreamed about it and buried his feelings six sticks under to keep his greatest friendship. Causing ripples in the river, he decided, would cause more ruckus than it was worth. And he was fine with that decision. He was. He _was._

Carlisle watched the realization play out on Alfyn’s face for a moment before yawning. “Well,” he said, “not much you can do about it now, hey? I mean, you’ve probably gone and found someone else at this point. How ‘bout David? That guy’s what the ladies called a ‘hunk,’ if I remember right.”

A silence followed. Carlisle wrinkled an eyebrow.

“I was kiddin’ about that marriage jab there, y’know. Just tryin’ to lighten the mood. Alf, don’t tell me you _still_ like him?”

“Fred!” A portly older fellow bounded over in a much desired interruption, wheezing. He doubled over, resting on his knees, before standing upright. “Fred,” he repeated, “have you seen Boss’s specialized paint can anywhere? The lapis one? I’ve looked and turned everything upside down for that blasted sign, and it’s nowhere to be found.”

“I’ve been standing here and assisting a visitor for a bit.” Carlisle gestured to Alfyn, who struggled to pay attention. “Didn’t Macy have it last? She’s in charge of stage maintenance.”

“She’s nowhere to be found. Gods almighty, I _knew_ she was pissed after Boss cheated on her, but -” The man glanced at Alfyn, “- uh, I mean. After the _situation_ happened. But I didn’t think she’d straight-up steal that can! Cost the clerk an arm and a leg to get that particular shade delivered! What are we to _do?_ Mister,” he clapped his hands together and bowed pitiably, “on your way to our lovely carnival, you didn’t happen to see a short blonde woman run off with a bucket?”

He shook his head. The man deflated, shoulders hunching forward.

“I’m _doomed,_ ” he muttered, then grabbed Carlisle by the shoulders, shaking him. “ _We’re_ doomed! Boss is going to find out, and he’s going to blow a gasket and a half over this. We’ve already lost sales thanks to that damn flu in Goldshore keeping everyone home, and now we can’t use our special promotion tactics! We’re going to lose our livelihoods!”

“Deep breaths, buddy.” Carlisle unfurled the man’s fingers off his shoulders. “I’m sure it’s just misplaced somewhere. Worse comes to worse, can’t we just replace it with a different blue?”

“It needs the golden specks,” the man groaned morosely. “Boss will notice right away if we don’t get it back. Oh, what are we to do… We’re doomed, Fred. Doomed. What will my family eat in the coming moons? Oh, the mortgage payments will stack so high, and I won’t be able to find another job in time thanks to the slander on my name, and then we’ll turn to corpses thanks to some thieves and left to rot in the ravines! We _have_ to find her. We must!”

Carlisle sighed, and gave a forced smile to Alfyn. “Sorry about this, sir. Like I said, we will open soon, so if you would like, please feel free to wait by the hay bales there. Come _on,_ James,” he muttered, pushing the despairing older fellow along, “you can’t be making a scene like that in front of -”

“Perchance _I_ may be of assistance?”

A new voice entered the fray, and with such commanding tone demanding all to take heed. It radiated a particular eloquence Alfyn only ever heard in those time-period dramas his Ma adored to watch whenever washing dinnertime dishes. The three turned to face a man, adorned in a billowing cape (how? The wind wasn’t even blowing that strong) and with his hair slicked back to a perfect mesh of “fluffy” and “smoothed out.” His charming smile dazzled even the strongest lightbulbs with its wattage.

Wow. Alfyn swallowed hard, finding himself unable to tear his eyes away. _Wow._ Anyone would be jealous of this guy’s exfoliation routine, for he _shined._

“Deepest apologies,” the gentleman continued, striding towards them in great confidence, “I could not help but overhear your distress over this dire issue you have found yourselves in. We may very well thank the gods themselves, for they have stricken me with a lackluster sense of direction, and, having taken a wrong turn, found myself in your presence when you needed aid most. Verily,” he bowed at a near-perfect ninety-degree angle, then straightened himself right and proper, “I, Cyrus Albright, am more than willing to lend a helping hand with your paint-pot predicament. There is not a mystery I cannot overlook until I solve it to my satisfaction.”

Cue applause? Alfyn clapped twice before realizing, oh, no, he wasn’t actually watching a play or anything. He dropped his hands in mild embarrassment as Carlisle and his co-worker exchanged looks.

“You really think you can help us?” asked the worried man. “Really truly?”

“I am a man of my word.” The fellow - Cyrus Albright - nodded twice. “There is much ground to cover, however, and you two appear bound to your duties here at this very carnival. Thus, I must ask,” he turned to Alfyn, “would you mind assisting me? Twice the set of eyes and ears can work miracles.”

“Uh.” Alfyn shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He liked to help people however he could, but he had other obligations, and he didn’t want to put Therion or Olberic in a bind by going on a wild goose chase. Cyrus waited patiently, and, in sensing Alfyn’s internal dilemma, continued:

“I assure you, it will take all of a half an hour, from start to finish. Should you choose to help me, I will repay you handsomely for your time.”

“Half an _hour?”_ Carlisle repeated, incredulous. “What are you, a magician?”

“No,” Cyrus answered seriously, “I am a professor, presently in the midst of his impromptu sabbatical. Now then, some brief questions, if you do not mind me inquiring: this ‘Macy.’ She was employed here, yes? And she had not been terminated as of today, yes?”

James nodded once.

“And you claim she was angered due to your management’s infidelity? As a result, you believe her to have absconded with the paint can in an act of vengeance for his misdeeds.” Cyrus tucked his chin into his forefinger, stroking it. “A logical conclusion, albeit flawed. While stealing valuable paint would indeed cause a ruckus, it would more so create consequences for the _employees,_ rather than the _employer._ No, for a woman scorned, she would need to make it more personal. And thus, I must ask one additional question - and one of _great_ import.”

The air stilled in anticipation for Cyrus’s follow-up. 

“Have either of you seen your ‘Boss’ at all today?”

James and Carlisle looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Nah, he tends to sleep in. He likes to get hammered after a hard day’s work and gets up five minutes before we open.” Carlisle shrugged. “Nothing super unusual.”

“ _Fred,_ ” James said, aghast at his coworker spilling their boss’s secrets.

“Indeed, if all the stars in the constellations align, then I deduce your troubles will amount to much more than petty theft. Please, direct us to where he resides, and my good friend and I,” he pulled Alfyn into a side-hug, “will locate your can of paint in due time. If you two kind gentlemen could wait and keep watch of the area for Ms. Macy here, that would be utmost helpful.”

Carlisle handed them a pamphlet of the carnival grounds, drawn in a cute cartoon-style that Nina would love, and gave a brief description of both Macy and where the employees temporarily resided. Cyrus accepted it, thanking them for their assistance, before motioning to Alfyn to follow. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Cyrus said as they meandered the winding path around numerous rides, stalls, and tents. “Apologies for my rudeness in never inquiring your name before asking of you to tag along.”

“S’alright.” Something about this guy - maybe his fanciness, maybe his genuinity in wanting to help oozing in his aura - made him instantly trustworthy and likeable in Alfyn’s book. Besides, he needed a distraction after _that_ conversation. _He looked back at ya._ He shook his head - thinking about it now wouldn’t be useful to anyone, let alone himself. “I’m Alfyn. You prefer Dr. Albright, or?”

“Heavens, no. Such formalities are necessary in the classroom, but as I said prior,” he made a grandiose gesture with his hand, “I am presently on an impromptu sabbatical, of which such titles are rendered meaningless in a common day-to-day life. Of course, if you are interested in stroking my mildly deflated ego,” he chuckled good-naturedly, “please, feel free to do so.”

Alfyn chuckled with him, then blinked. “Dr. Albright,” he said, jabbing his thumb in the opposite direction, “the map be guidin’ us that way, not this way.”

“Dear me. Please, lead on.”

For a traveling carnival, the amount of equipment and the variety of activities to participate in was staggering. It took a good five, ten minutes to reach the other end of the stringed-off grounds, the employee spaces tucked away in the back. A carnival often visited the Riverlands every summer; when he was a kid, his Ma used to pile him, Zeph, and any other friends into her truck and drove them to it. He remembered the twangy sound of the banjo in the background while Zeph fished for apples using all but his teeth. It’d been awhile since he last came to one of these things, littered with nostalgia. He made a mental note of where the popcorn popped so he could pick some up after all this weirdness.

The employee section was an encirclement of tents and some teardrop trailers with their tires half-sunk into the muddied, tamped-down ground. Cyrus stroked his chin in thought, surveying their surroundings, before pointing toward the second-largest tent.

“From my deductions,” he explained, “the largest tent is for all the employees to congregate for meetings and the like. Implying the _second_ largest would be reserved for the boss’s sleeping quarters. Given that it is a known rumor he is one to engage in sexual intercourse with his employees,” gods almighty, how did he say that with a straight face? “he must have enough space to do so.”

“Shucks, I s’pose you be right about that.”

“And so!” Cyrus stopped in front of the second tent, his fingers slowly peeling the zipper open, his hand precariously keeping the flap from falling in order to suspend the dramatic tension. “When you have all these factors combined, the results can become tragically grisly. Hence why I had to ask for _your_ outsider assistance as opposed to _theirs._ Behold,”

He allowed the flap to fall down, and Alfyn gasped: 

Before them lay still a handsome, shirtless man, no older than his forties, his long, curly blonde hair _plip-plopping_ rivulets of drying blood. He remained face down on an air mattress, arm hanging limp over the side. A cell phone chirped an unheard alarm, buzzing incessantly next to it, unable to escape the horrific scene by being attached to a portable charger. 

“ - for we have more to fret about over the loss of a can,” Cyrus continued, lifting up the abandoned, bloodied, and unopened can of paint labeled _lapis lazuli_ by its handle, “as we now have the loss of a human life.”


	22. a study in cerulean; act ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo hiyo, welcome welcome to ch. 22! y’all be ever so kind with ur words and kudos, I am forever grateful ;v; we received yet another wonderful fan-art from a buddy named [bestostis](https://twitter.com/bestostis) on twitter, seen [here](https://twitter.com/bestostis/status/1348678660128182280?s=20)! Y’ALL BE TOO KIND TO LIL OL’ ME!! Cries,, anyways uh. so here we be, pls enjoy, and lemme know what u think!

In being part of the medical profession (or attempting to be, at any rate), exposure to death and people passing on wasn’t exactly uncommon. In his twenty-one years, Alfyn and Zeph both bore the misfortune of watching patients wither away until rejoining the gods in the heavens. Mr. Feller succumbed to liver disease, Mrs. Dallington suffered a fatal heart attack - the residents in Clearbrook continued to increase the age median, and with it came predictable, inescapable tragedies. 

(Ma died at thirty-seven. _Thirty-seven._ A fluke of a clot for someone so seemingly young and full of vigor. Everyone around them called her an old spirit, but they didn’t mean _literally._ )

With the one exception of what happened in Sunshade and the caves in Goldshore, Alfyn never experienced a full-blown, actual death brought about by _murder_. Not one so unexpected. He blinked a few times, brain processing the scene before him (everything else seemed so immaculate and clean that the body felt out of place), before his inner doctor instincts kicked in and propelled him to approach the deceased(?) man. Head wounds bleed the fastest, aside from major arteries in the inner thighs, and if the guy still held onto life, then Alfyn needed to act fast. He grabbed hold of the wrist to test for a pulse - 

The arm refused to budge. 

Rigor mortis already set in.

“Shit,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. He released the dead man’s leathery wrist and turned to Cyrus, brow knitting together. “He’s already been long gone for three hours at least.”

Cyrus tucked in his head, forefinger stroking his chin while his eyes closed in thought. Alfyn took the opportunity to glance at the prevalent gash so violently embedded in the poor man’s skull, a red sea misplaced in a field of gold. Already coagulated. The color seemed a bit strange, but... He bit his bottom lip and pulled the sullied sheet over the man’s body to grant him some decency in death. They needed to call the police, ASAP. He reached for his phone - oh. Right. No service. Gods damned cheap-ass -

“Ya don’t happen to have a cell on ya, do ya?”

“A ‘cell?’” Cyrus’s eyes fluttered open, an expression of picture-perfect confusion played delicately on his face. “Ah, a ‘mobile phone,’ I presume. Alas, I am afraid I do not, no. While I am educated in many subjects, technology has always evaded my grasp. History is more or less my specialization, not the future.”

Alfyn frowned. “But cells be _modern day,_ ain’t they?” 

“Indeed. I am often told I have been born in the wrong time, for I am out of tune with most ‘modern day’ inventions. Take the microwave, for example. Simplistic as it may seem, the myriad options and choices in the buttons alone are - ah. Apologies,” he peered down at the sheet, “this is not the time to discuss my shortcomings. I suppose you wish to call the police, yes?”

Who wouldn’t wish to call the police in this situation? Alfyn stared at him, both mildly concerned and perturbed, before nodding once. “Uh. Yeah?” 

“Let us do so, then. That said,” Cyrus continued, spinning the paint can in his hands, “we will have to solve this mystery before they arrive, as they are supremely useless in such matters of bringing about justice.”

Harsh. But true, too; police never seemed to do much except harass and annoy people over petty violations. He remembered an officer getting in a spitting match with Ma over an incident of j-walking in Saintsbridge after one of his appointments. Guess they preferred to take care of easy problems rather than difficult, long-standing ones. “Ain’t it that Macy lady? ‘Cause it seems to me like she got the motives for it.”

“Yes, that is the case - rather, the perception of such.” Cyrus reached into his hip-pack and unscrewed a plastic water bottle. He poured its contents over the paint can, then proceeded to wipe the bloodstains off with his black sleeve with excessive scrubbing. Alfyn raised a quizzical eyebrow while Cyrus jerked his head toward the open tent flap. “Let us close this tent for now,” he said, “and return to our bated breath audience with our findings. A word of caution, however,” he added as they stepped out, voice lowered, “do not mention a hair of discovering the body. The reasoning will reveal itself in due time, I assure you.”

If Alfyn learned anything in his time with Zeph - _the way he looked at ya_ \- it was to let people smarter than him in a given situation take the lead. Nothing wrong with lacking know-how; Cyrus seemed well-versed in the solving of puzzles, while Alfyn specialized in other things, like uncommon medicine. His talents were useless on the dead. He finished zipping shut the tent before gripping his satchel, jaw clenched tight.

“After ya, Dr. Albr - uh, not that way, sir, other way. There ya go.”

The trek back to the entrance felt oddly ominous as their feet mushed against the matted grass, shuffling by unaware employees finishing in setting up their stalls. Their boss was dead, and life went on without him. A bizarre sensation washed over Alfyn as he swallowed hard at the realization. Therion was right; nothing in life stopped still, even when a leader perished. The dancer impaled a man with a blade, Therion stabbed another with his own, and the world kept turning without a care of it all.

What mattered was the people who cared about you, then. It was in that where Alfyn disagreed with Therion’s sentiment of “with or without you,” since the “you,” no matter who it be, mattered greatly to at least _someone._ Right? Every single person mattered to somebody out there. To say “life goes on, with or without you” in such a disheartening way made it feel so - so _cold._ So empty, so calculated, like another hunk of meat that could just waste away to nothing with little consequence.

Alfyn blinked.

_Does Therion think of_ himself _like that? That life’d go on, with or without_ him, _and it wouldn’t matter none to anybody in the whole world?_

Cyrus paused in front of one of the stalls, and Alfyn, lost in his thoughts, almost bumped right into him. He asked the befuddled employee to purchase another water bottle to replace his now-empty one, stuffed it into his bulging hip pack, and bade them a pleasant day without bothering to explain how any non-staff member was allowed on the fairgrounds before opening time. A man who marched to the beat of his own drum, this one. Ma would’ve really liked him.

“Ya said ya came this way ‘cause you turned the wrong way, right?” Alfyn needed to fill the itching silence to stave off the oncoming nerves about whatever it was Cyrus had planned for the upcoming reveal. “Where were ya tryin’ to head?”

“North, toward the Frostlands,” Cyrus provided. “I am presently pursuing a matter of theft as well, believe it or not. An entire trove of literature has been filched from Atlasdam’s great library in the wake of the head librarian’s absence. A terrible shame, that, for I needed it for a spot of research I need to do rather quickly.”

“Ain’t there other copies of these books?”

“If there _were_ , I would nary have a need to pursue them, no?” Cyrus chuckled good-naturedly regardless at Alfyn’s seemingly stupid question. “That said, there are various publications of them around the continent, albeit abridged and lacking in the content I am trying to unveil for the sake of us all.”

The sake of us all? Alfyn turned his head to look at Cyrus, who’s expression shifted from pleasantries to a troubled one. He shook his head.

“However, that has no relevance to our _current_ predicament, so I will spare you from nattering your ear off. My students tell me I have a habit of prattling about off-topic nonsense once I begin delving into subjects I am enthralled with.” His smile returned, dazzling and filled with naive charm. Did this man have any idea just how potent those smiles were? He might very well slay the hearts of ten thousand women in the bat of an eye. “Judging from your accent, you hail from the Riverlands, yes?”

“Sheesh, it be that obvious, hey?”

“Obvious is not the word I would use - rather, I am quite well-versed with the general colloquial tongue for those who come from across the sea. One of my co-workers came from the small town of ‘Clearbrook.’ Have you ever heard of it? I suppose it is unlikely, given it is often dwarfed by the likes of Saintsbridge and Riverford, but…”

“Wha - have _I_ heard of it? I be _from_ there!” Alfyn’s eyes widened. “What be their name? I might know ‘em.”

“My, what a twist of fate this is!” Cyrus clapped once in delight, amused at the happenstance. The paint can dangled and swung to and fro from his fingertips as he gestured elaborately. “Her name is Mercedes - Mercedes Fairborough, though I believe her last name may have changed recently. A clever woman with quite the extensive knowledge of astronomy. Have you any recollection of her?”

“I -”

(“I’m thinking,” Zeph said, his pen rapping incessantly on the kitchen table with textbooks sprawled over every other vacant space, “of proposing to her.”

Alfyn forced himself to keep stirring the sugar into the strong-scented coffee, buying himself some time by pouring in the cream into each mug. “Shucks, it be about time, ain’t it? You two’ve been in love for how long? An’ datin’ for a whole year and a half. You gotta plan for how ya wanna do it?”

Zeph shifted in his chair, face flushed. He turned the page of his textbook, its contents clearly not sinking in at the moment. “Along the riverside,” he said, “under the stars. Got her a ring and everything. But golly, I’m _nervous,_ Alf. What if she says no?”

He barked out a laugh, eyes twinkling in spite of everything. Right. He was Zeph’s best friend. He needed to be here for him, no matter what. “C’mon, Zeph. Who could possibly say no to them puppy dog eyes ya got there? She’s gonna say yes faster than a fish to a worm, lemme tell ya.”

“Thaaaat’s not a great mental image there, buddy.” Still, Zeph ducked his snicker behind his hand, relief visible. “Thanks, Alf. I really needed that. I feel like I can do this for real now instead of daydreaming about it.”

“Go and get ‘er. Can’t wait for the day when you two be in front of that there sacred altar an’ exchanging your sappy-ass vows.” He grinned, and this time, he felt like he actually meant it. Yeah. He would forever be Zeph’s anchor whenever he spiraled out of control in his own self-doubts. “You’re gonna be a blubberin’ mess by the time she says ‘I -’”)

“ - do, yeah.” He scuffed his heels along the matted grass. “She be a good friend of mine, actually. Just married my best friend a moon or so ago.” 

“Imagine,” Cyrus said, perplexed, “the likelihood of us meeting in such a profound manner, only to later discover we have a once-removed connection tying us together. Just what are the mathematical chances of that, given the entirety of Orsterra’s great population? Incredible, truly incredible. I would love to view the actual mathematical chances on this occurrence.” 

His pace slowed and he tucked the paint can behind his back, hands clasping together to support its weight. Alfyn tilted his head, confused, before realizing they had almost made it back to the entrance where both Carlisle and James waited. They were chatting about something which stopped upon Cyrus’s and Alfyn’s return.

Carlisle gave them a wave. “Find Boss’s tent alright?”

Cyrus nodded once, lips drawn into a thin line. “That we have. And your case,” he placed the paint can onto the countertop, “is mostly solved. Within thirty minutes, as I have promised. Your show may go on. However, we did not locate this ‘Macy.’ Deepest apologies, but we have reason to believe she absconded from the grounds.”

James stared hard at the paint can, confused, and looked to Carlisle, who shrugged.

“You seem befuddled,” Cyrus said.

“Erm.” James blinked and tugged at his wrinkled collar. “Well, I - it’s just a surprise, really. That was everything you found in Boss’s tent, right? Nothing else? No one else?”

“Indeed.”

Cyrus’s tone sounded light, but Alfyn picked up a slight sharpened edge in those two syllables, cutting James down to his simplest parts with a quick assessment. His arms folded shortly thereafter, looking the man up and down, hardened expression betraying little. Then, a small, knowledgeable smile spread across his face, eyes softening.

“Indeed,” he repeated, “thirty minutes in all, including the determination of our number one murder suspect.”

Carlisle, in the midst of taking a sip of his water, spat it out, hacking and coughing in surprise. James’ shoulders hackled, hands brought up to his chest, taking a step back. 

“M - sorry, did you say ‘murder?’” Carlisle wheezed between breaths, coughs interjecting every other word. “Feels like I missed something here.”

“Alas, this ‘Boss,’” Cyrus elaborated to a recovering Carlisle, “has passed on in the most gruesome, cowardly manner only a man of lackluster conviction could ever commit. Face-down in his bed, delicately crafted to look as though he had been there the whole time. However, given the lack of blood spatter in his tent itself,” he began to pace, “he had to have been relocated from the actual scene of the deed, which has yet to be discovered.”

Huh. That actually made sense; Alfyn’s recollection of the tent, despite how cluttered it was, was relatively clean of blood. _Oddly,_ even. Judging by how deep the gash in the back of his head, the impact would have splattered a _lot_ all over the place, and tent fabric wasn’t exactly the easiest to wash down.

“The _Boss_ is - ?” Carlisle blinked a few times as the thought sunk in. “No way, I just - but - there’s no way, why would _anyone_ do that? And then move the body - why?”

“He was placed there instead of any other location to fulfill a scenario such as this: a woman scorned with the knowledge of her lover’s infidelity approaches her target with a sweet smile on her face promising a common rendezvous shared between them. Then, once alone, having brought work supplies in tow under the guise of ‘working on projects later,’ he turns his back on her, granting her an opportunity to strike with a blunt object. However, there are a few issues with this scenario. One, this Macy has been described as a short, blonde woman. Short. This man was several sticks in height, his body strewn across the entire length of his mattress. The blow,” he stroked along across his own head, “resided here, near the top of the crown. Even standing upon her tip-toes, unless she crossed the threshold of a certain height, she would have never reached.”

“So?” James shifted his weight from one side to the other, sweat bullets lining along his forehead. Huh. Poor guy must be rattled over how horrible his boss died. “She could have, um, hit him when they were on the bed?”

“Having him face-down on the mattress in a heterosexual relationship with his tendency to view women as objects to be conquered makes little sense. Rather, _she_ ought to have been in the position of lying either stomach-side or back-side.” Cyrus’s pace increased, round and round and round he went in circles. “Vulnerability, from what I have gathered, is not something he would dare practice to a disposable lay. As such, his positioning would have to be upright and standing during the battery.”

_Holy mackerel,_ Alfyn gawked, _how the hell is he makin’ so many hypotheses with so little info?_

The cadence of Cyrus’s elevated voice drew a small audience from the other carnival crew members, wanting to peer in on what was going on. In doing so, they created a miniature wall blocking off access to the rest of the grounds. The murmurs of “what’s going on?” followed by “someone was killed?” amplified a tensing atmosphere. Alfyn swallowed hard.

“Furthermore, seeing as he had to be moved from one place to another - not to doubt her physical capacity, mind - she would need to do so in a timely manner before any other employee spotted her. Given he had no mud or dirt on him, he could not have been dragged. This leads me to the conclusion that he was carried with nary a snag by his murderer.”

Silence. Carlisle, enraptured by Cyrus’s grandiose display of “bearer of all knowledge,” leaned forward, jaw slack. James, on the other hand, developed a twitch in his brow, one of the external jugular veins in his neck bulging. The epitome of nervousness. Alfyn took a subtle step to the side toward him. This guy wasn’t rattled at all, was he? At least not over his Boss’s murder. 

“Thus, when compositing all these details into one coherent picture,” Cyrus shook his head, “this ‘Macy’ you are ever so utterly desperate to pin this upon lacks all the proper qualifications, minus motivation. Instead, that honor would go to one of us standing here, in this very miniature circle we find ourselves in.”

“You sure love the sound of your own voice even when it’s full of shit, don’t you, sir.” James folded his arms across his chest. Whoa. That was a change and a half right there. Even Carlisle raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in mood. “Who do you think you are, accusing one of us like that? Are you even a qualified detective?”

“Goodness, there is no need for such language. To answer your question - alas, I am not. However, I _am_ a very dedicated middle-aged man who loves himself a good mystery novel after a hard day’s work of grading theses. Some may call such skill sets ‘null and void’ as a result, but rest assured,” Cyrus bowed, “my amatuer-level sleuthing is more than sufficient for an amatuer-level crime and criminal.”

The crowd’s whispers grew louder, a palpable excitement over Cyrus’s snark charging the air. James’s cheeks fumed red, blossoming across all visible skin, as his fists clenched. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again:

“You’ve no proof about who _actually_ did it, though. _Anyone_ can pick up a paint can and whack someone upside the head here - what makes you so certain it was someone in this circle?”

Cyrus paused, lips pursed. He paced a few peds, unaffected by the scores of eyes watching his every move, before clapping once.

“Well, I most certainly _wasn’t_ absolutely certain until you just exposed yourself.”

“What? What the hell does _that_ mean?”

“The art of choosing proper language is a talent in which most writers and speechists pride themselves in. A single word can shift the mood, a single phrase can divulge a breadth of information. Furthermore, in _omitting_ words, you can very much perform the same tricks. Brevity is the soul of wit, as it were. I myself, as you may derive, am rather underperforming in terms of ‘brevity,’ but that aside.” He hoisted the can of _lapis lazuli,_ its silver tin glinting in the mid-morning sun. “When I stated how precisely this ‘Boss’ perished, I said ‘a blunt object.’ Correct?”

Cyrus turned to Alfyn for confirmation, who nodded a few times vigorously. “Yup, yessir, heard it with my own ears.”

“As a result, I never once revealed the specifications of the object used to rob this poor man’s life. And, with a little evidence tampering - I ask all of you bearing witness to _not_ do this at home - we have thus created a peculiar paradox. You, James, have revealed to us the murderer’s methodology. Can anyone here tell me why this is a problem? Please, raise your hands. Ah, yes.” He smiled at a young woman who eagerly thrust her whole arm upward. “You, in the front.”

“It’s got no blood on it!” she stated with gratuitous enthusiasm. 

“Precisely! Extra credit kudos to you, my dear.” He showcased the paint can in all its unbloodied, cleaned glory. “You are correct: not a speck of the man’s blood can be beheld upon this can, and yet, you, James - you, without a beat’s hesitation, before all who stand here, have determined the murder weapon, of which only I and Mr. Greengrass here - outsiders of this very carnival - had the knowledge of. Pray tell…”

His smiling bravado dropped to a look of seriousness.

“...how, exactly, would you know that if not for being the very one to assail him, hm?”

A heavy, perturbing silence smothered the crowd. A few crows cawed in the distance. The breeze kicked up, rustling the nearby tall grass. James’s pissed-off expression shifted to an eerie calm, jaw clenched. The whispers kicked in again at the lull in action, unintelligible but laced with worry. They were reaching the climax of the case, and - Alfyn took a peek at his broken phone - all under half an hour. Cyrus was nothing short of amazing, but now - with James aggravated - there was no way he could orchestrate the prime suspect’s next move.

Then the footsteps silenced everyone once more.

“Ummm?” A short, blonde woman slowed her roll approaching the carnival’s gates and ticket counter. She carried two drink carriers filled with different orders. She cocked her head to the side, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. “Hullo. Is it my birthday or something? Why’s everyone gathered here when we’re supposed to be opening in like, five minutes?”

“Macy,” Carlisle said, flailing his arms, “uh, bad timing, we’re all in the middle of -”

“ _Ohhhhh,_ I get it.” She cracked a grin and set the drinks down onto the ticket counter. “We rehearsing early for that new interactive play the Impresario wanted to do today? Like, it’s cool and everything, but I think there may be some, like, problems? With it. Like,” she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger, “what if people get, like, too excited? And then like, tackled James or something? If he gets hurt, like, then we lose our literal best actor. We should lead with, like, a disclaimer or something? Like, ‘none of this is legit,’ ‘cause if we just go, like, guns blazing? People might actually call the police? And that’s like, mega bad for business, yeah? Not to mention the possible trauma? I can’t believe no one thought about that?”

“ _Macy,_ ” Carlisle groaned, rubbing his temples. Alfyn blinked. What did she just say?

All the tension in James’s body vanished, replaced with a hanging of his head and slumped shoulders. “Gods, Macy, we went _over_ this. We told you we were practicing before we opened! You can’t be blabbing out the spoilers! He was doing _so well._ ”

“Whaaaat? Oh, my gosh, you _were_ totally like, doing it now, huh? Whoopsee.”

The crowd of carnival employees let out groans and grumbles in unison, accompanied by the shakes of their heads. They began walking away in visible disappointment.

“I am _so_ confused right now.” Alfyn exchanged a look with Cyrus. “Do you got any clue what be goin’ on?”

“Indeed.” Cyrus nodded once. “It appears we have been bamboozled.”

“See? They’re like, totally lost? That’s not good. We need to _not_ do that. Okey?” Macy gave Cyrus and Alfyn a smile. “So, so sorry! They’ve _always_ been, like, the ‘look before you leap’ type. There’s no actual murder, don’t you two worry your pretty little heads!”

“Aye yae yae. You’re right, you’re right.” James sighed, heavy and tired, before giving Alfyn and Cyrus a sheepish smile. “Sorry, folks. The jig was up before the final curtain call. The boss - our Impresario - he’s a real theater geek. There’s this writer named ‘Simone…’ Gods, what was his last name? Anyways, he just released a new ‘interactive’ play, one that gets the audience involved in a ‘realistic murder mystery’ - but we’re still trying to iron out the kinks. It’s one of our newest attractions to promote business around these parts.”

“Sure looks like our first official practice take could’ve gone better.” Carlisle sighed and handed Alfyn a flyer. Emblazoned on it was an announcement for said-interactive play, starring a slew of names he didn’t recognize. “There’s actually several acts to it, each with a different deceased and suspects, and the difficulty ramps up with every act.”

“But I keep saying we need more _actors,_ ” James complained. “We can’t just keep recycling folks - people’ll catch on quick.”

“Back up, wait, slow down - that body wasn’t _real?”_ Alfyn frowned. “An’ all of this was - Macy’s right, ya gotta _warn_ people! Shit, man, I was anxious fer a good half hour over havin’ to call the cops an’ - fuck.” He bent over, resting his hands on his knees. “That ain’t good for my heart.”

“I _told_ you,” Macy said, setting a drink in front of Carlisle. “I’m gonna, like, go tell the Impresario to, like, get that taken care of? So like, you don’t scar anyone for life, like, ever again. _Listen_ to me next time, like, for real.”

James and Carlisle hung their heads.

“We’re real sorry about that,” said James.

“We should have thought it through better. You know how it is when the Impresario gets a new play and runs with it. He said to run the rehearsal the second a guest showed up, so.” Carlisle sighed, then turned to Alfyn and Cyrus. His brow knitted together. “Look, I’ll make it up to you for putting you folks through that without thinking. Lemme buy you something - anything you want here in the carnival, okay? Tell the other vendors to put it on my tab once you see something you want.”

“In truth, I had quite the time with your production.” Cyrus smiled. “All the theatrics aside, you both are splendid actors, and your prop of a realistic corpse was genuine enough to fool us. Besides which, if not for your ruse,” he gestured to Alfyn, “I would not have had my fated encounter with this gentleman. Thank you ever so kindly for the experience.”

_Sheesh, yeah, that be one way to put it. An “experience.”_ Still, he couldn’t find it in his heart to bear a grudge toward his old friend or his coworkers. He shook his head once, then gave a sheepish grin.

“A’ight, a’ight. Dr. Albright’s right - aside from ya not, y’know, lettin’ us consent to bein’ a part of it, it was, uh. Decent?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I ain’t know much ‘bout plays, really, but I thought for sure I’d have to trip James up when he made a break for it. So. Uh. Good job? I think.” He nodded a bit for emphasis of his jumbled praises. “But I hope yer pockets be loaded, C - uh, Fred, ‘cause I’m buyin’ out the whole damn carnival.”

“Please, have mercy on my pocketbook!” Carlisle dramatically slapped the back of his hand to his own forehead. “Have at it though, really. It’s the least I can do.”

***

The popcorn stand had so many variations and flavors that it nearly overloaded Alfyn’s mind. He got three different medium-sized bags just to cover his bases before stopping by the one with caramel apples. An ample distraction from an utter disaster of a day this was turning out to be. Demons, stealing, and fake-murders, oh my! The sooner they got out of Noblecourt to distance themselves from whatever nonsense haunted the city, the better. Even though Carlisle offered to pay for him for the earlier mishap, Alfyn decided to pay it himself. It just didn’t feel right to take the offer, in the end.

“That is quite the armful of goodies,” Cyrus commented. He followed Alfyn like a misplaced puppy - which was fine, considering Alfyn couldn’t in good conscience leave the man to wander lost forever.

“Shucks, yeah, I s’pose so.” He stifled a yawn. “I be travelin’ with a handful of buddies ‘cross Orsterra, an’ they be doin’, uh, important stuff right now, but they really wanted some stuff from ‘ere.”

“How kind of you. Are you all performing a cross-country tour on foot?”

“Hah? No, gods no. We got Meadow. She be my ol’ gas-guzzler of a truck - a real piece of work, an’ she’s had a few problems here an’ there, but she’s my baby. Now that I think ‘bout it, you walked on up to us an’ said you got _lost_ on your way to the Frostlands, right?”

“Terribly so. You would think in my thirty years of experience that I would have the Flatlands memorized on the back of my hand.” He chuckled. “Tragically, something about directions bewilders my brain, and so, here I am - nowhere near where I wanted to be, yet somehow all the richer for it.”

Huh. Alfyn readjusted the weight in his arms - getting all of it back to the hotel would be a trip - and rummaged through his thoughts for a second: “An’ ya said something ‘bout lookin’ for books? Stolen or something?”

“Indeed. It is utmost pertinent that I retrieve them somehow.” His expression turned grave, brow furrowing in thought. “I scoured the entire Atlasdam library for those relics and dispatched every methodology of my disposal - in deepest thanks to the Orsterran courier services - to have what may have been the genuine articles to my doorstep, but to no avail. After this sudden sabbatical ousted me from my classroom, I took it to be a sign that I ought to get my own hands dirty and pursue the lead myself. However,” he tilted his head, “there _are_ no tangible leads, and thus my current quandary.”

“So yer just wanderin’ ‘round Orsterra, _hoping_ to find them?”

“More or less, as the winds carry me. However, I must say, I did _not_ pack properly for proper footwear to traverse for trees on end. I suppose hindsight is as they say.”

Yeah. Yeah, his Ma would two hundred percent be head-over-heels for this man - _I’ve always got a soft spot for them overeducated types that ain’t got a lick of wisdom to their behind, y’know?_ Alfyn let out a soft laugh and shook his head, bemused. “I mean,” he said, “we be headin’ northward toward the Frostlands too, if yer interested in hitchin’ a ride. We ain’t got a whole heck of a lotta room left, so it might be a wicked tight squeeze, but - ”

“Why, that is incredibly kind of you!” Cyrus clapped his hands together. “Are you certain it would not impose great distress to you? I did indeed wish to traverse north as well, for there is this mighty library belonging to the Church I wish to investigate, though I had no plan on how to survive through the bitter cold.”

Alfyn pursed his lips in thought - Therion was going to be some kind of mad, squeezing four in the back, but it’d work considering how small he, Kit, and Tressa were. Cyrus wasn’t exactly a large man himself physically, though his personality may fill what vacant space remained. Or they could flip up the cupholder space and make a third seat in the front, though that’d be difficult to fit Cyrus into. Maybe Therion, then? Just to give him breathing room from the possible three loudest passengers in the truck?

“It seems as though steam is billowing from your ears, Mr. Greengrass.”

“Y’can call me ‘Alfyn,’ just so ya know.”

“Likewise to you. Cyrus is sufficient.”

“Well, Cyrus.” Alfyn looked him up and down, realizing his lackluster traveling gear. Ho boy. For a man so well-spoken and brimming with intellect, he didn’t seem to have common sense in spades. “If ya wanna meet the rest of my friends an’ see if it be a good fit for ya, feel free. We can help keep an ear out for them books too, if ya want. What’re they called, anyways?”

“It will not be easy, I am afraid. Rather, they are a collection, and terribly common. However, it is the originals I seek, as well as the missing volumes never released in publication. Why, I could only hazard a guess - I never perused the collection with my own eyes prior to their disappearance. But it could be key as to why there is trouble stirring in our continent. And soon,” Cyrus’s gaze shifted skyward, “the world, I suppose. Maybe the entire heavens, if we are so unlucky.”

That didn’t sound good. “Uh, what’re you talkin’ about, exactly?”

“You have not noticed, then?” The professor returned his gaze to Alfyn as they meandered from the carnival grounds. The Flatlands expanse greeted them in a bow of tall grass spurting upward from the divots in the degrading road. “I suppose not. No one would, unless they were intentionally looking for it. Since we are now comrades, I suppose it could not hurt to inform you, but I must prelude this revelation with a forewarning. The gravity of this information may, ah, either disturb you or alter your entire perception of our reality itself. And it may not even be the truth of all things, as I cannot confirm it without the texts I seek.”

“Not for nothin’, but shucks,” he shrugged, “After some of the shit I’ve seen, I think it’ll take a _lot_ to shock me now.”

“I will accept that as consent. Very well.”

Cyrus paused mid-stride. Alfyn took a couple of steps forward before noticing, then stopped himself, turning back to the professor. From where they stood, the excitable chatter of the children at the carnival carried with the breeze. 

“The constellations of the gods - all twelve of them,” he said. “They are all falling down, as told in the tales of the ancient classic taught to us all in primary school, the _Trials of the Twelve._ ”


	23. crepusculum

They reside in S’warkii for longer than anticipated in preparation for the Frostland’s current battering swirl of snowstorms, among other things. Some say spring was an optimal time to visit the historic, stunning views of Flamesgrace, or the quaint, picturesque likes of Stillsnow. But according to H’aanit, late spring cropped up the most unpredictable swathes of fluctuating temperatures and sudden tempests. If not for her guidance, Primrose and Minerva might very well have gotten into trouble and turned into icicles.

“Aye,” H’aanit nodded once, “that shalt worken anon.”

A great number of clientele from all over visited Sunshade’s infamous dancing theater. However, few and far between heralded from this village so removed and secluded from the passage of time. Their mother tongue bore shadows of eras past, never advancing like the rest of Orsterra’s prominent lexicon. Some might find it irritating in trying to haphazardly translate from olde to modern. Primrose, on the other hand - with H’aanit’s huskiness embedded in every peculiar syllable - found it alluring.

Not to mention she could snap her spine in two. Primrose smirked at the thought; forget _her,_ she could probably even snap the mightiest of men into halves. Those muscles were more than for show, as she observed during H’aanit’s practice. A valuable ally, to say the least.

“Primrose,” H’aanit said, leaning forward. Her brow furrowed. “Thine ears, hearen me? Arest thou well?”

“Yes, yes - fret not, just lost in thought.” Primrose set aside the whetstone and observed the family dagger once more, watching how it glittered beneath the sunlight filtered through a canopy of tree branches. “Thank you for letting me borrow this. It’d been quite some time since I last was able to maintain it.”

“A maintained weapon canst spellen the difference betwixt life or death.” H’aanit’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Consideren thine journey shalt be a longen one, ‘tis the leasten I can do.”

“It’s much appreciated.” She slid the dagger back into its overly ornate sheath, the old Azelhart family crest emblazoned upon it worn from age. It’s a reminder of what she must do, no matter what, no matter how long it took. Her father will never rest easy until she buried the whole treacherous organization with him. She paused. “H’aanit,” she said, “are you sure you want to come with us?”

“As stated before, thine destination and mine own are one in the same.” Her gaze fixated on the branches overhead, hand resting on her hip. “There is something I musten achieven, too.”

So mysterious. Not that Primrose could say anything on the matter; she thrived in secrecy, bearing the brunt of her own secrets burning deep in her soul. Still, the nagging curiosity yearned to know more about this woman, if only as a fleeting distraction from the reality of her situation. She knew. She knew, deep down, there was a great chance that by the end of her slaughter, she may not survive long enough to savor the retribution. Still, she ought to enjoy _some_ of the now rather than fixating tiredly on the future.

Minerva at last hobbled out from H’aanit’s home, the snow leopard Linde striding by her side. The poor woman’s eyesight would give way eventually, and it visibly deteriorated in the whites creeping into her muddled brown irises. She gave them a withered smile.

“Sorry, dears,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hold you both up.”

“Nay.” H’aanit shook her head. “Thy health taken precedence. Prithee, how arest thou?”

“Fit as a used fiddle.” Minerva’s grin widened as she slapped her knees. “These rusted chumps are ready to go. Let me tell you, when you two get to be my age, just remember to stretch your legs often, else a little tumble like that will have you down for the count.”

A “little tumble,” more like a horrible stumble over some upturned stones while surveying the village. The sound of bones snapping rang clear that afternoon, followed by a withering groan. Primrose worried Minerva might have broken something, but - as stated by the health practitioner - the gods seemed to be looking out for her. Minor swelling, some bruising. It didn’t make much sense at all, but Minerva ushered their worries away, claiming she’d be ready in time for their departure.

And she was right. Walking upright with nary a limp in her step. What a miraculous old lady; too bad none of her luck could spare her oncoming blindness.

Primrose looked to H’aanit. “Well,” she said. “Grandmother is all right - should we begin moving supplies to the vehicle?”

A discomforted expression flickered across H’aanit’s face, her nose wrinkling at the prospect. “I supposen,” she replied. Apparently, most folks in the village held an utter disdain toward gasoline-powered and mechanical constructs, opting for more traditional modes of transportation. However, horses and what-have-you brought little protection against the heaving cold of the Frostlands, so the debate on whether to abandon the car or not landed in Primrose’s hotblooded favor.

“Thank you for letting us stay with you for so long, dear.” Minerva’s gaze swept over the village once more, eyes twinkling. “This little village is so darling. Why, I may very well move here once all is said and done, should the gods allow it.”

“Thy presence would be most welcome,” H’aanit said. She gave Linde a hefty pat atop her head. “Thine meals were utmost delicious. We hast never partaken in Sunland meals before.”

“You flatter me so!” She ducked her smile behind her hand while shaking her head. “Just some dusty ol’ recipes, nothing special. But,” she gestured to her hip pack, “I have _plenty_ of spices left over - I reckon they’ll do us good where we’re going. Have we forgotten anything? I’m nasty forgetful myself…”

“I think we might have checked over five times now,” Primrose said between titters. H’aanit was most certainly a cautious one, ensuring everything they may ever need on the way to Stillsnow stuffed its way into their luggage. She picked up one of the bags and motioned for Minerva to follow when Linde let out a keen snarl.

“Linde?” H’aanit’s eyebrows lifted in surprise before she scowled and snapped her head toward the direction of thicket-laden village entrance. Primrose blinked, following her line of sight in confusion. Nothing but shadows and the whistling breeze causing them to dance. She squinted, trying to make out anything strange.

“Oh,” whispered Minerva. She unfurled one of her knobbly forefingers and pointed at the dark. “Her.”

Her? Primrose stared at Minerva in disbelief - _you can hardly see, what are you talking about?_ \- before a shiver ran down her spine. Her gaze returned to the shadows, where an apparition began taking shape. Linde’s tail bushled three times its original size, hind legs digging into the dirt. The sound of _clopping_ came next, slow, steady, accompanied by a large black horse.

The horse and its rider stilled at the edge of the village, a flurry of browned leaves billowing in from behind them. 

“Death walks with her,” said Minerva, voice hollowed and empty and a mere replicant of itself. Primrose spared her a glance; the old woman’s blank expression was a far cry from her usual demeanor. “Hand-in-hand with the light.”

The rider dismounted, then led the horse into the village. A woman, donned in black, sporting black pits for eyes and black curls for hair, approached them, her skin borderline translucent and exposing every vein in her visible flesh. The goosebumps spread across Primrose’s body, her breath trapped in her throat. Her presence - something about her - every alarm bell and red flag shrieked at her to get them as far away as humanly possible from this person.

“ **Feareth me not,”** said a disembodied voice that did not quite belong to the faux-human they witnessed. **“I bringeth thee nay harmeth. Prithee,”** it continued, the head turning in increments toward Minerva, **“bid those folk, mine Sister.”**

The old woman gasped, a bright _spark_ of something brilliant flashing through her hunched frame, and Primrose backpedaled away in surprise. A few dreadful seconds passed - stars still spinning in Primrose’s line of vision - before the old woman lifted her head in reverence. 

**“Nay,”** she said - the same ethereal cadence possessing her - **“Thou should hast never cometh. Thy presence is but a poison.”**

The lady’s hands lifted to her chest in shock, teeth gritting together. She shook her head and bit her bottom lip. **“Never sayeth so, Dohter. I needeth thee. _We_ needeth thee.”**

Minerva - _Dohter?_ \- straightened her back, stepping forward. Any trace of warmth and kindness told between tales of the desert were nothing but a faint memory, her shell stuffed with a soul that didn’t belong. Dohter, as in - like the - **“Thee shall _loseth,_ Brother. Thy arrogance shalt beest thy downfall. Thy use of bodies to manipulate the past into their present is naught but sin.”**

What in the seven hells was going on. Dohter, and - Aelfric’s foot, it was like they were possessed by the gods themselves. As if that were a thing - as if that were even _possible._ Even in Primrose’s adolescent learning, the gods were said to remain in the heavens to no longer meddle in the affairs of humans. Furthermore, the gods - they didn’t _exist._ A tall tale to get children to behave, really. 

(If the gods _actually_ existed, where were they that night? Where were they when the crows sang hymns to the darkness, when their sharp beaks sank into her poor father’s chest?)

The stranger tottered forward, expression shifting into a wretched despair. **“Dohter, I asketh of thee - thou _must_ cometh to mine aide. Please - I shalt even forgive thy betrayal. I never did desire to square thee. The heavens - thine beloved Home - ‘tis destined to -”**

Minerva’s body spat to the ground. **“Fie! Thou staked thy claim, and thou shalt reap thine consequences, dear Brother. I am the Charitable. Not the Deceivable. Begone from mine sight.”**

 **“There might not but beest another way,”** the stranger babbled, **“another way to convince thee to cometh home, there _must -”_**

**“What sayeth I, Brother? Begone. From. Mine. Sight. Lest I maketh thee one with the very corses thy hath stolen and buryeth it ‘neath the ground six sticks _under!”_**

Another flash - loud, so very loud, and hot enough to singe the fine hairs peppering Primrose’s arm - and Minerva let out a grunt, slumping forward toward the moss-covered earth. Linde moved to break the fall, providing a softer landing for the fragile woman. Primrose remained frozen in place, attempting to parse what just happened, when the corpse passing as a living lady parted her lips. The light returned to her eyes, wavering.

“Primrose,” she whispered. Her gloved hand lifted and reached out, another clasped at her chest. Awe washed over her. “H’aanit,” she continued, “at last, I - I found you both, I…”

The stranger - not-stranger, apparently, seeing as she somehow knew both of their names - subsequently fell to her knees, then faceplanted into the ground in silence.

*

(A conversation between the vines:

“Her constitution is weak and feverish. It’s… not looking good, ma’am.”

“She must make it. She’s all I have, all that’s left.”

“Ma’am, I will do what I can, but…”

“Poppycock! You claim that is all you can do?! Can’t you see she’s -”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I really am doing my best.”

“Gods above and below, oh, what am I to _do?”_

What am I to do?

**What wouldst thee like me to doth?**

I just want my mother to smile again, like she always does. Tend the grapes, as we always have. That’s all I want. Even if I’m bound to this place for all my life, even if I can never see the seas or feel the grasses, I just want her to _smile._

Can you do that?

“What _can_ I do?”

“Keep watch over her, and keep giving her fluids. It might be enough to stave the poison long enough for your magic grapes to work their, well, magic.”

Can you do that?

**Dearheart, there is dram I cannot doth but meddle in the affairs of humanity. Such is the doctrine of all there is, and shall beest.**

Oh. Okay. I understand. Are you a ghost?

**I am once what hath walked the earth before thee, yes.**

Can you talk to other ghosts?

**Aye, I s’pose I can.**

Can you tell Papa - can you see if you can find Papa and let him know we’re okay? He was so sad to leave us that day, when the guards came. He hugged me so tight, I could feel his tears on my cheeks. I think we worried him. I’m not a very bright or strong girl, so I think he was worried about us after - after he, um, rejoined the stars. 

**Mayhaps thee can sayeth so anon.**

Maybe. But I want to stay here with Mother. She’ll be so sad, Misses Ghost. 

**Aye, yond… yond may beest true.**

Misses Ghost, am I going to die?

**‘Tis in thy future, as is with all mortals.**

Am I going to die now?

You can’t say, can you? That’s okay. 

**Apologies.**

Misses Ghost, are you here to take me away?

**Thine heart belongeth with the stars, pure as ‘tis, dearheart. I am one of many to bring thine deliverance to accompany the rest.**

I don’t really understand what that means. 

**Apologies.**

Do you possess people?

**Nay.**

Can you?

**Aye. However, yond ‘tis a path of which no being like myself shalt ever tread - or so speaketh of doctrines eons past. Some are breaking the rules anon.**

Oh. That’s bad. Mother tells me the rules should always, always be followed, or else the bad men will come take us away like Papa.

I have an idea! Can I help you stop the bad guys somehow?

**I beget thy pardon?**

If I can help you stop the bad ghosts, can you let me live a little longer to make Mother less sad? 

**I…**

I promise I don’t break promises, Misses Ghost. Papa said I’m a good girl like that - you can ask him. I even tend to those magic grapes Mother tells me to do, even if it’s so hot my feet are like bacon! 

“Minerva, dear, can you hear me? Open your mouth. Good girl. Shhh, I know, I know - it’s hard now, but you must keep at it. You must. Please, don’t leave me too. Please. Please don’t go where I can’t follow. Minerva?”

**Thy should not make an offer to a stranger, dearheart. Mine kind can be dangerous folk.**

You’re not scary to me, Misses Ghost. Have you ever seen a scorpion? They’re _thiiiiis_ big! That’s what’s scary. And snakes. But you’re not scary one bit. 

**Thy soul is precious, and much-desired.** **Thou art brave.**

Even someone weak and little like me can be brave, Misses Ghost. Why, I scared off a scorpion just earlier away from our vines! Stung me good, and it hurt so much. 

**Thou shalt need better protection, then, from the many dangers that wisheth to bring thee harm.**

**...Aye. I shalt grant thine wish, for a favor.**

My wish? Oh, to make Mother smile? You’re the best, Misses Ghost. See! I _knew_ you weren’t scary. 

What favor?

**It may taketh time. A long, long time - long years awaiting thee. However, I shalt protect thee where I can in exchange.**

**I wish to protect thine world, dearheart.**

Me too, Misses Ghost. I love the world. I haven’t even seen it all yet! Mother tells me stories, about the oceans blue and the snows as tall as I, and even about _rivers._ Have you ever seen a river, Misses Ghost? There’s no water here.

**Whilst thou help mine wish?**

Of course! 

**Then tread with thee, I shalt. Mine love for thee will bring thee comfort, and keep thy corse safe - as best I can, and until the end of all comes nigh.**

I don’t really understand, but - I’m a good walking partner. I think. Once my foot’s all healed from this sting, I can show you my home, Misses Ghost. What’s your name? I’m Minerva. It means “intelligence” or something. 

**My title matters not.**

**Thou shalt not remember me by the time thy waken.**

Aw, really? But I want to. Can’t I remember?

**Nay.**

**But be with thee always, now and forever, I shalt. Be not afraid, dearheart - thou shalt never be alone.**

**Until then.**

**Then, when He returns.**

Who’s -

“...he?”

“Minerva? Minerva - _oh,_ Minerva! My baby, oh, my baby - let me look at you, oh, are you feeling better? Can you chew? Eat these. Slowly now, do not choke - oh, _Minerva,_ never, ever, _ever_ do that again! When you see a scorpion or a snake, you tell me, you understand? Good. You are a good girl, Minerva - the gods’ greatest gift.”)


End file.
